


Confessions to a Coquelicot Cushion

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Cock Cages, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Crack, Daddy Kink, Drug Use, Falconry, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Object Penetration, Opium, Oral Sex, Piercings, Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Somnophilia, Spanking, Story within a Story, Story: The Man With the Twisted Lip, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-26 20:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10793760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: In the "Bar of Gold" opium den, Holmes confesses his fantasies.  ACD.30. Accidental Stimulation. Xanadu crumbles. 221b.31. Best & Worst. A happy ending (for a cushion!)Prompts from the 31 Days of Porn Challenge.





	1. Pretending

I am searching for a clue amongst the incoherent ramblings of these sots, a clue to the fate of Mister Neville St. Clair.

I am lying in the “Bar of Gold” of Upper Swandam Lane, pretending to be a dull, old, wrinkled, doddering bag of bones with a pipe between his knees.

I am pretending.

I am pretending just as the cushion before me is pretending that it is still a ripe coquelicot, the colour of Monet’s fields, and not, even in the brightest of lights which shall never penetrate this smoky dungeon, a regretful shade of brown.

The cushion reminds me of Watson.

The cushion reminds me of Watson, for it, too, has that grand gift of silence, which makes my comrade, my chronicler, oh, what shall I call him, invaluable.

It is a great thing to have someone to talk to when one’s thoughts are not overly pleasant. It is a great thing to have a Watson to talk to, regardless of the conditions of one’s thoughts.

Perhaps I shall address to this cushion, even as my ears listen keenly for news of my client’s, that dear little woman’s, disappeared husband. Perhaps I shall loosen my lips as the creatures about me do, their mutterings and their mumbling forming a sacred river of sound at which my mind, that tireless prospector, sifts to find a fleck of gold resembling Mister Neville St. Clair.

What shall I speak of?

What does it matter? No one is listening but me.

The coquelicot cushion is trimmed in the most foolish of fool’s gold braid. A pair of tassels dangle—much like my opium pipe, that is, from sheer lassitude—from the two uppermost corners. With its braided shoulders, the cushion sits before me like a decorated officer of a forgotten war, whose medals of valour have been borrowed against and claimed and reclaimed more than once to pay for vice.

Medals may be sold, but not valour.

My Watson is a brave man.

I remind myself—or does the cushion remind me—that Watson is not mine.

He is hers.

He’s married to a fine woman and living a fine life, somewhere outside these brown walls.

But he is also sitting opposite me, reclined, curled in a grotesque pose, smoking a pipe.

Impossible.

Only highly improbable?

Perhaps I shall tell Cushion Watson all my secrets, all my stories.

Who listens to secrets?

Priests. Whores.

These grimy, grim walls—I hope, for the sake of Mrs. Neville St. Clair.

Who listens stories?

Children. Drunks.

Bitter, fickle, cuckolded kings who have a penchant for slaying their virgin brides.

My mind protests.

But the role of storyteller is Watson’s, not mine!

And we, he and I, are English. We do not confess!

But, the ego counters with its serpentine charm, you are not you and Watson is a bit of fluff and damp feathers swathed in red-orange silk.

You are pretending.

I miss my Watson.

That is no artifice. That is no performance. That is no pretending.

_Oh, you pathetic creature!_

It is, of course, the cushion speaking in Watson’s voice.

_Stop wallowing and tell me a story, you miscreant!_

Very well.

I shall tell you not one, I shall tell you all, without omitting a depraved detail.

And once you’ve heard them all, you shall condemn me!

_Or?_

The word is faint, like the scurrying of an orphaned mouse across a rafter.

_Shall I absolve you, Holmes? Shall I take you by the hand and breathe life into what were once the fantastical ravings of a lonely philosopher? Shall I be with you, by your side, holding your hand, inhaling your groans and sighs, exhaling your pleasure?_

Oh, you are a tempter, aren’t you?

_I am a cushion_.

Who seems to have suddenly lost its grand gift of silence! More’s the pity!

The cushion sinks into a speechless sulk. Really, the resemblance is uncanny.

Surrender is a full-body tremor. I know it well. I am an addict, after all, even if this brown tar is not my poison of choice.

All right.

I shall tell you my stories, the pretty ones, the wanton ones, the ridiculous ones, the lovely ones, the lot, but I cannot do it by myself.

I rekindle the hearth of my berth.

I put the pipe to my lips.

I draw drug deep inside me.

And I watch the decent drapery of my life, much like so many sets of the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson’s curtains, go up in smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The decent drapery' from Thomas de Quincy (quoting Edmund Burke) in _Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_.


	2. Nursing or Lactating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes wants to talk about his saintly mother, Cushion Watson wants to talk about Holmes's bawdy wet nurse, neither wants to talk about any _real_ bosoms, so Holmes imagines Watson as a mermaid figurehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With references to the canon story "The _Gloria Scott_."

Let us begin at the beginning. At the bosom of my saintly mother where I suckled as a babe—

_Must we?_

Cushion Watson cringes.

Why else am I, here, smoking this pipe? Why do I smoke the black clay, the briar root, the cherrywood—

_Let’s not speak of the cherrywood; you only smoke it when you’re most quarrelsome._

Why does any Englishman smoke anything at all if not to recall that first, primal stage, of the nest, of safety, of security, of love—?

_I don’t want to talk about saintly mothers. How about that bawdy wet nurse who used to let you spy on her in the bath? Clear and milky droplets rolling down her softness as she sang—_

Never such a woman! Let’s see saintly bosoms, we could speak of—

I raised an eyebrow, or at least I thought of raising an eyebrow.

_It’s far too early in your drugged stupor to speak of Mary._

I nodded in acknowledgement, then cringed at my own words even as they formed.

Mrs. Neville St. Clair cuts a handsome figure.

_It seems that Scheherazade will lose her head the first night._

It is a horrid thing to be pityingly taunted by a cushion.

I smoked and scowled.

You Watson are a figurehead.

_I am a cushion._

No, for my tale’s purpose, you are a figurehead.

_A leader in name only?_

No. I grin. A mermaid fixed to the prow of an old-fashioned bark bound for Australia.

_Of heaving bosom?_

Heaving, heavy, wave-cutting bosoms. Your scales and fins are a tropical cerulean. I, a green sailor, am an artist, too. I etched you, sketched you before we set sail together, in my dreams, in my heart, and in ink upon my arm. I am a musician as well. I serenade you with my own compositions when all the rest are busy about business of plotting, for the ship, she is a floating prison, soldiers and convicts, men who live and die by their own mercurial codes of ruthlessness.

A single cry of alarm from a nervous little doctor sets my world ablaze. The ship becomes a slaughter-house. In my fright, I flee to you, my love, like a son to his mother. I swing myself below the prow and hang, my teeth clamping about one of your nipples, my lips suckling your wooden teat.

The muskets and the bayonets. The pistols and the knives. The cries, the pleas, the curses, the gurgling. I cling to you through it all until—

_BOOM!_

You shudder through your pleasure as a dense black cloud of smoke shoots up in the air. You fall backwards, but I tighten my grip. My body crashes upon yours, and then we are tilting, tilting, tilting. Horizontal for an instant, I reach a hand down to stroke your cerulean scales.

We sink together, lovers at last, my lips still suckling, my mouth still drawing precious _breath-life-milk-love_ from you until the sea opens its arms and welcomes us into a murky embrace.


	3. Unusual sex toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes's favourite weapon and second favourite weapon unite. PWP. Object penetration.

_Very well. Proceed._

High praise, so I do, proceed, that is, to a night in which you and I barely escape with our lives.

* * *

“Watson, I believe your concern for that crop’s injuries may surpass your concern for its wielder’s,” I grumble.

“Don’t be jealous, Holmes. I owe my life to both of you. Those ruffians were not gentlemen.”

True, you saw to my wounds first, but I am jealous, nonetheless. You’ve washed the crop, even scrubbed it with an old toothbrush, and are now drying it with a cloth.

An instrument of my own fashioning, the steel core of the crop is completely covered with braided leather, and the head is weighted with lead. It is completely useless for prodding a horse, unless you are a cruel beast yourself, but perfect for fending off fiends hiding in the yellow fog.

It is my favourite weapon—no, it is my second favourite weapon, after an armed Watson.

“No,” I say, working valiantly to keep the arousal out of my voice. There is a danger in observing you rubbing a steel shaft with such firm tenderness, such grateful appreciation. “Quite keen on throat-slashing, weren’t they? Perhaps they’ll apply their garroting tendencies to one another in police custody.”

Dear God. You’re applying oil to the leather braid. I look away.

“There. No cudgeling villains for at least three days. Doctor’s orders,” you announce. I open my mouth to protest and then foolishly realise that you are addressing the crop.

I huff derisively, but am secretly charmed.

“You held your own, my dear man, and did not escape unscathed.”

“A mere scratch.”

There will be bruises, too, but I do not press the matter, for the sight of a shirtless Watson—yes, even for chaste medical treatments, such is my depravity—would no doubt give me two steel shafts with which to contend, so I bid you a gruff, but sincere, good night, pleading a vague fatigue, which should arouse your suspicion, I never tire, but as expected the appeal to your doctorly concern trumps all and so you do not even raise an eyebrow in my direction as I retire to my bedroom.

* * *

_Weaponless?_

Yes.

_Ah._

Yes.

* * *

I listen to you tend your own wounds and draw a map in my mind of the severity and location of each based on your breathing and the noises that escape your lips.

My blood boils at every hiss, every grunt.

I should’ve cracked their skulls like eggs!

Then you say something so low and whispered that even my keen ears nearly miss it.

“Shall we?”

Your footsteps sound on the stairs. The two creaks that follow tell that your bedroom door is only half-closed.

* * *

_I leave the door open?_

Oh, do be quiet.

_Very well._

* * *

 

I abandon my bedroom and search the sitting room for a clue as to the meaning of your utterance. You may have retired with a bottle or a pipe or a book, but no, you’ve taken the crop.

I grow hard at the knowledge and an army of ruffians could not prevent me from climbing the stairs.

The sight that greets me!

Your arse. Bare. Gorgeous. A jar of unguent on the bedside table. The rest of you and the room is bathed in shadow. A hand appears from between your legs. Your middle finger pushes between your cheeks. No doubt it is slicked. No doubt it is slowly and carefully teasing your puckered hole, just as I would. No doubt you’re savouring the pleasure and the intimacy of the act, just as I would.

You gasp. The first breech is always an intrusion, no matter how much desired.

“Holmes,” you whisper.

Yes, I’m here. Go on.

“I’m yours to be used.”

Of course, you are. Please, please do go on.

The finger withdraws. More slick. More teasing. A barely-stifled moan.

Index and middle finger.

Yes, stretch, loosen, relax those lovely, lovely rings of muscles.

Finally, you say,

“Please fuck me.”

You right yourself.

Wet noises. More wet noises.

The bulbous head of the crop appears, but it will be highly improbably—without circus acrobat dexterity or some sort of unseen engineering—to do more that tempt your greedy hole.

You rub. And rub. And whine.

And the last rein of my control snaps.

I enter the room.

“Holmes!”

Take the crop from you.

“Holmes!”

And push its leaden tip into you.

“Oh, God, Holmes, yes!”

Your head drops between your arms. You are on hands and knees on the bed as I thrust the crop deeper. I pull it out, almost completely, then push it back in, a bit farther.

“You were magnificent tonight. I wanted this, wanted you, in me.”

“Just this?” I growl.

You look over your shoulder and wince and whimper.

And with that, the crop lands on the floor. My trousers are open, my cock is slicked and I am fucking your beautiful arse.

“Both of you!” you cry. “I want both of you, taking turns, fucking me, until dawn, until my arsehole is as bruised as my ribs and as torn as my side.”

I spend myself inside you, then lean forward to grip your cock and stroke you to release.

“Until dawn,” I promise. “You are mine to use. To love and fuck and worship. Oh, Watson, my beautiful, beautiful Watson. For you, aside you, I would do battle with dragons. With scoundrels. With every devil in Hell itself.”

I lick and kiss and nuzzle your neck.

We fall—slowly and carefully—together onto the bed, slotted on your un-bandaged side.

You nod towards the crop.

“When I see you with it, I get so bloody hard, Holmes. I’m quite like a school-boy,” you pant.

“Indoor practice. Daily,” I vow as I kiss the shell of your ear. “You see, as you learned very early in our acquaintanceship, I am an expert singlestick player, but—

* * *

—and, of course, you, pawky pillow, beat me to the final jab!—

_—but even better at doubles!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the canon story "The Six Napoleons": " _...loaded hunting-crop, which was his favourite weapon._. More about that [here](http://www.bartitsu.org/index.php/tag/loaded-hunting-crop/).


	4. Food.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at Simpson's. Coming untouched/in trousers.

_That merits a stay of execution._

My head is pleased. It has grown so attached to my shoulders. By the neck, you see.

_Yes, but do get on with it._

Ah, onto the tale of the saddle of lamb and you making a jolly mess of the inside of your trousers at Simpson’s?

Silence is consent, if not high-spirited approbation. You and I, however, are in high spirits when we return from Margate.

* * *

“How about dinner at Simpson’s?” I propose as the train pulls into the station.

“Absolutely. I’m famished! Sea air, don’t you know?”

I laugh, but the noise you make resembles a giggle.

* * *

_Chortle, you mean._

No, I do not mean a chortle. Nor do I mean a guffaw, a cachinnate or—

_Titter?_

I certainly do not mean a titter.

* * *

We leave the station and head towards The Strand, still laughing. The case, you see, was a rare gem.

_Cursed?_

No, I said that it _was_ a rare gem, not that it pertained to one. It was a, oh, how to put it, a whimsical case. No profound triumph over evil, though certainly a few wrongs were righted. No steep challenge for the intellect either, but a sufficiently satisfying number of puzzles did present themselves along the path to a similarly satisfying conclusion. I’d been clever. You’d been brave. A rather prescient gentleman’s gentleman served as our accomplice in pulling off a stellar resolution and nabbing the guilty parties. But all in all, a rather silly affair and I am feeling the gay Lothario so I say,

“Watson, may I be so bold as to make your dinner selection for you?”

You chuckle.

* * *

_Ah, so I_ do _chuckle!_

Companionable silence, wherefore art thou?

* * *

“Why not?” you say.

“The Lobster soup. The watercress salad.”

“The lamb?”

“Not the sole?”

You look so disappointed that I relent.

“All right, the saddle of lamb. With the treacle sponge.”

“Yes!”

Your cry of glee brings the waiter.

“But Holmes, what’s the scheme?” you ask when the orders are placed and our attendant disappears. “Not fattening me up for slaughter, I trust?”

“Of a kind. I desire a long, but light feast. The lamb, I suspect, fails in that, but your enjoyment will compensate.”

“Long? Are we avoiding Baker Street for some reason or remaining here for some reason?”

“The latter.”

“And light?”

“I don’t want too much of your blood supply to be diverted to your digestive organs when a sudden increase may be required elsewhere.”

A corner of your mouth twitches when my bullet hits its target.

“This is about the bathing machine,” you say.

“Perhaps,” I lie.

What of the bathing machine? On the surface, not much. Margate is a seaside holiday town and it shores are dotted with covered wagons which afford bathers convenience and privacy as they enjoy its briny waters. At one point, I spied a rather handsome specimen of bathing machine situated in a secluded cove. I turned and realised that it had caught your attention as well. A single glance passed between us, but, oh, what a glance! I nearly abandoned the search for the Woman with No Powder on Her Nose then and there, but of course, honour prevailed, duty called, etcetera, etcetera.

* * *

_Etcetera._

* * *

“Would you care to discuss the bathing machine, Watson?” I ask, scanning the dining room, modulating my voice so I am heard by you and you alone. Silence may be consent when it comes to cushions, but this is far too delicate to risk a misunderstanding. I need a ‘yes.’

The lobster soup arrives. You break off a piece of bread and grin and say,

“Yes.”

With the flavour of the sea in our mouths, I begin.

“Perhaps we delay our return a day to take in the healing waters, no, Doctor?”

You nod. “Good for all sorts of ills.”

“We and the handsome bathing machine are left in the cove at mid-day. The sun is fierce. We strip.”

You smirk, then add, “Takes a bit longer than it ought.”

“Because of my cat-like love of personal cleanliness or because I spend so much time ogling you?”

You shake your head. “Because you keep apologising for your clumsiness.”

It is my turn to smirk. “Ah, yes, well, a tall man in a small box. Elbows are bound to jab.”

“Hmm? Was that your knobby elbow? Or your knobby knee? Or your knobby—?”

You interrupt yourself by shoveling a spoonful of soup into your gorgeous maw.

Pawky Watson is the best Watson.

“My hand keeps find its way between your legs, brushing the tender spot between hole and bollocks.”

Your eyes and the sudden tightness in your jaw tell me that I shall be returning to that spot again and again, in word and, perhaps, in deed, too, but then I spy the waiter approaching and say quickly,

“It is too hot inside our canvas-covered chariot to dance a full paso doble, so we emerge.”

As bowls are removed and small plates festooned with watercress appear, you say. “I bet you swim like a fish.”

“I do. Displays of athleticism over, we splash about the waves. Then we chase the tide until only our heads and the tops of our shoulders are visible. I sink, pushing between your legs and blowing teasing bubbles upon your skin before surfacing behind you.”

You stab the watercress. “Propriety be damned, I want my legs wrapped ‘round your waist.”

“And my hand fondling your sacs?”

You nod, keeping head lowered and your eyes fixed on the mound of shrubbery before you.

“Fingering your rim, too?”

You nod.

“Teasing everything in-between?”

You bite your lip. Then you turn your head and sniff loudly. “Christ, _Sherlock_.”

You don’t even notice the slip. Your eyes are pinched shut. Nothing in your expression or comportment changes. You don’t remark on it, either. Not then, not later.

But my world is turned upside-down.

I eat my salad. You move yours around the plate as I compose my thoughts, school my voice, and return to my script.

“I dive below, over and over, testing my lung capacity, licking your shaft, suckling your bollocks, nipping at creases and crevices like a minnow.”

You smile.

“I even manage to spread your cheeks and push a curious, probing tip of the tongue inside you.”

At this, you grunt and throw down your fork.

“Holmes, I sincerely how that your plan includes allowing me the dessert course to calm myself. I will hardly be able to leave the premises without causing a scandal otherwise. I fear the walking itself will prove an insurmountable challenge.”

The waiter, alert to your gesture and my empty plate, nears once more.

A bare table between us, you lean forward.

“I am in grave danger of making a mess of myself if you continue!”

And there it is.

In all honesty, I only wanted to make you hard, make you want, but now I am determined to make you come.

“Oh, Watson. What the possibility of danger does to me! It’s like the red cape to the bull.”

You snort and open your mouth to reply, then quickly pinch your lips together.

We fall into silence as plates are set before us.

“Looks delicious,” you say. “Please convey our appreciation to the chef.”

The waiter beams and nods.

My end fixed, I waste no time in advancing as soon as he leaves.

“We play until nightfall. I keep you on the edge, just like this, until you are begging.”

“Holmes.”

I pause, long enough for you to cut all your meat in pieces, like a mother for a child.

“We remove the canvas from the top of the bathing machine, that I might lay you down on a nest of towels and suck you to crisis while you gaze at the stars and moon.”

You chew slowly, head lowered and nod.

We eat in silence for a while. I wait until most of the lamb and half of the potatoes have been consumed, then I launch my final offensive.

“But I am not done. And neither are you.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, hurriedly taking two more bites.

“You beg and whimper and crawl halfway down the ramp towards the water. Your rump is in the air and your pleas are so pathetic and needy I cannot help but comply.”

You groan.

“I devour your arse like a four-course-meal on The Strand. I’m licking your perineum. I’m tonguing your hole as deep as biology allows. I’m kissing your rim and dropping glob after glob of spittle onto you, coating the skin and hair and licking the whole mess—spit, sweat, all dressed your musky scent—like I haven’t eaten for a fortnight. And loving it. Loving every morsel. Every. Single. Bite.”

The table jerks.

I’d like to crow, and you, perhaps are thinking along the same lines because you say under your breath,

“You cock! You utter cock!”

Our eyes meet, then a voice says,

“Ready for the treacle sponge, gentlemen?”


	5. Pet play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson as a hawk. BDSM. Angst. Warning for references to animal cruelty (i.e., methods used to tame falcons, blinding and starving and preventing sleep).
> 
> Also, reference to the canon story "The Yellow Face."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used [this site](http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/Library/SLT/society/husbandry/hawking.html#glossary) on falconry and hawking in Shakespeare for terms.

Men are brutes.

_True._

We take something holy and profane it.

_Also true._

We take something exquisite, full of raw power, swathed in divine-woven grace.

_And?_

And we try to tame it, to bend it to us, bind it to us, through the most violent means possible, rather than make ourselves worthy of it. Or, even more obscene, when it does not break or bind, when it does not laud us for the change that it never asked of us, but that nevertheless, we’ve wrought in ourselves for its sake…

_Yes?_

We destroy it. Then we destroy ourselves. And many others who are not party to our madness.

_I am not a cushion, am I?_

No, my dear Watson, you are a hawk.

* * *

You are the hawk of the most ridiculed hawker in the land, for I cannot bear to keep you sharp, that is, hungry, so that you might stoop, that is, drop to collect the offering of dead rodent in my hand. A lure is not a lure if one must starve the lured first.

My kinsmen laugh at me and call me a fool.

I do not even hear their taunts when my eyes are lifted skyward.

You are my haggard, soaring through the clouds, riding the wild winds, hatched from I know not where, perhaps Zeus’s head fully formed, but never from a husbanded egg.

I refuse to ‘watch’ you as my kinsmen watch their birds, ‘watch’ meaning to keep from sleep. It is I who do not sleep. I train my body and my mind, day and night. I clothe myself in the finest of robes. I call to you, loudly, but with respect, one hunter to another, one who sees much to one who sees even more.

I make myself a merlin among men that I might be worthy of a warrior-bird.

I extend my gloved arm, lure in hand, again and again, at dusk and dawn, hoping, yes, praying, for you have reduced a godless man to superstition, that you will deign to light upon it.

You do not pass empty, I think, but after many moons, you look upon the lure, once, then twice.

My heart beats as your wings bate.

My kite without a tail.

You are not obedient, my kinsmen say.

What care I for submission?

I shall not seel your eye. I shall not pass a needle through the lower lid, tethering the thread to your head, so that I might forcibly blind you and, therefore bind you, to my will, to my whim.

* * *

My audience trembles.

_If we’re speaking of needles, I’d much prefer to be a cushion._

* * *

 

When you finally alight on my outstretched arm, however, I’m rendered mute by such beauty so near.

Your immaculate feathers, black, white, grey and brown, with just a single thread of gold to remind me of your nobility.

As if I could I forget, my liege.

Their design is older than the first family crest ever painted on a shield or carved over a hearth. The nature’s steel in your claws and beak makes me quake, as do those pools of liquid obsidian that are your windows to the world, the world of prey for you are consummate predator.

I am ravished.

I am a besieged town offering sacrifice to the conqueror, paying tribute with mouse and mole and hare.

You eat and eat.

Fool, they chant.

Your eyelids droop in satiety, not torture, so I decide to lecture you about a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin and by nothing else.

And you sleep.

Fool, they chant.

* * *

_But do I hunt?_

Oh, how you hunt, my dear Watson!

* * *

I gaze upon you constantly and, in time, you know my countenance in its many season and allow me to stroke your feathers gently. I never tire of petting you. We even play, a tugging war with broken wing of a fowl or a hide-and-seek morsel that’s never hidden for long.

* * *

_But?_

I shrug.

* * *

But the winds change and one day you are gone. No jesses tie you to me. Or me to you.

I see you above, soaring, riding the wild winds.

You bate your wings, and my sorrow multiplies.

And I never dare to raise my eyes to sky again.

* * *

“Holmes.”

I look over my shoulder at the bonds, then up at you, looming over me.

You are rolling up your shirtsleeves. Your collar is open.

My torso is bare. I am kneeling upon the bear skin rug before the fire.

“Thank you, Watson. The leather straps, yes, like that, my ankles to each other and the long reins, looped around one wrist may be the most comfortable, but, of course, experiment and see what suits. Like jesses, you see. The jesses of a hawk.”

“This is about ceding power, Holmes. You will have to stop directing me at some point.”

I swallow and nod. “The hood. If I refuse to see, I must be blinded. I must be punished for failing. You must strike until I say ‘Norbury.’”

“I will strike until one of us says ‘Norbury,’” you correct in a voice that is so perfect for its purpose that I close my eyes to avoid weeping.

The black silk hood is slipped over my head.

I open my eyes, but my world is dark.

And the first swing of the cane is like the bating of wings.


	6. Misunderstanding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War of the Roses begins on an ordinary Tuesday. Fluff. Rating: Teen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the meanings of the roses are from Kate Greenaway's [The Language of Flowers](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31591/31591-h/31591-h.htm%22).

It is always painful when my intellect fails me personally.

_Do tell._

I detect a bit more relish than is polite in those two words, but nevertheless, I do, tell, that is.

* * *

The War of the Roses begins on an ordinary Tuesday.

A small arrangement of flowers is on the breakfast table when I greet the day and the Watson.

Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a tray.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, so that’s what you were about early this morning? How lovely!”

“Thought it might brighten things up a bit.”

You smile. I smile.

A single flower rests among the greenery, a moss rosebud.

I do not know how conversant you, Watson, are in the language of flowers, but I, of course, am fluent, and a moss rosebud means ‘confession of love.’

I wait for you to put words to the implicit message, but you do not. Nevertheless, we pass an amicable, albeit ordinary, day together. By nightfall, I have convinced myself that I have presumed too much, but by morning I am wondering once more.

The greenery remains but the flower has changed.

It is an Austrian rose and made of silk.

“Oh, thank you, Doctor Watson. Those roses are so pretty but the ones from the garden do smell like boiled linseed oil, don’t they? We don’t need any more foul odors.”

Mrs. Hudson shoots me a reproving glance and scurries out the room before I can remind her what valuable contribution to natural philosophy some foul odors have made.

An Austrian rose.

‘Thou art all that is lovely.’

You smile. I smile.

Another ordinary day passes.

A red rosebud appears the following day.

“My dear Watson, one might suspect you of forming an attachment to a flower shop attendant.”

My tone is too strident. I wince.

“Yes, I suppose. Do you like it?”

“’Pure and lovely.’ What is not to like?”

You relax and nod and drink your tea.

The days pass.

There’s a China rose—‘beauty always new’—and a Damask rose—‘beautiful complexion’—I had given a bit more care to my shave the previous day, you see.

I always paid the flower a polite compliment, which you always politely accepted, but there was no elaboration and as far as I could tell, no change in our camaraderie.

But then the messages darkened.

A Guelder rose.

_Winter. Age._

A hundred-leaved rose.

_Pride._

A single musk rose.

_Capricious beauty._

What was the meaning of it all?

I waited and waited, not wishing to rush the matter, but nonetheless growing impatient.

Finally, at the appearance of the yellow rose—‘decrease of love’—I lost my temper.

“Really, Watson, I think a bare table is more hygienic, don’t you?”

I did not spare a glance in your direction. I plucked the yellow rose, one of the silk ones, there had been both natural and artificial flowers among your selections, and crushed it in my fist as I headed toward the stairs.

I must have walked for hours, not looking beyond my own jumbled thoughts, when a small voice penetrated my fog.

“Hey, don’t do our Nell’s flower like that!”

I still had the yellow rose in my hand.

The girl with the indignant look on her face was obviously sister to Nell, the blind girl on the church steps with a basket of flowers for sale.

“You know Doctor Watson?” I asked.

“Yeah, we know the doctor and we know our flowers and we know we don’t like seein’ ‘em treated so.”

“I suppose he only bought the one and cheated you on the price,” I say.

“The doctor isn’t like that, and he’s been around all week, hasn’t he, Nell? Getting you to make him something special this and something special that and payin’ something special for it, too.”

“Vi, no! You and your mouth,” grumbles Nell.

My single step towards the step and Nell puts Vi in my way, blocking my path and shielding her sister.

She shakes her head in warning.

I take heed and step back.

“Doctor Watson has natural advantages,” I say. “He’s quite popular with a wide set of ladies.”

“But this one’s special,” calls Nell over her sister’s shoulder. “And now he’s too shy to tell ‘er. So he wants to give her a rose every day.”

Vi nods. “’Cause he says a daily rose means, what does it mean, Nell?”

Nell smiles and says “’Thy smile I aspire to.’ He says she has a handsome smile.”

“That lights his heart. Smitten’s our doctor. And it’s got to be a different rose.”

“On account of she gets bored so easily.”

I bury my smile, then look from Nell to Vi to their baskets of flowers.

Then I ask,

“How many of those can you make by dusk?”

* * *

You stumble up the stairs.

“Good night at the club, Watson?”

You grunt and wriggle yourself out of your coat. It slips from your fingers and I quickly retrieve it before you bend and crumple to the floor as well.

“G’night, Holmes.”                                                                  

You climb the stairs. I follow at a safe distance with an oil lamp and then rush threshold when you swing the door wide.

WHOOSH!

You yelp at the cascade that rains down upon us.

“Holmes!”

You look up and frown at the net and rigging I’ve engineered, then at the hundred white silk roses which are scattered about the bedroom.

“I was not worthy of you, Watson, but I am now,” I say, handing you a single white rose.

“You’re so good at reading things, Holmes, skip codes and foreign languages and whatnot, I was certain that I’d got it wrong or perhaps you just didn’t feel—“

I silence you with a kiss.

And you kiss me back with equal fervour.

And then I take you in my arms and lay you down in that bed of roses and make love to you, whispering every endearment, sentiment, and troth that flowers cannot express, everything that grows in the garden of my heart.


	7. Clothing/Uniform kink.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes gives Watson a dressing gown for his birthday. PWP. Anal & oral sex.

My penchant for dressing gowns is a matter of public record, thanks to your chronicles, Watson. The variety of colours and fabrics that fill my wardrobe speaks to the pendulum’s range of my moods. You, of course, are a much more even tempered and practical man. Aside from a heavy wool garment for the chilliest of winter nights, you prefer to remain in your public dress until you retire for the evening.

But in the privacy of our rooms, you pay me voiced and unvoiced compliments on my dressing gowns, the plum’s a favourite in terms of colour. I even watched you on one occasion, in a well-polished coffee pot, naturally, fingering the silk of the blue one, which had been discarded ‘cross my armchair in a moment of haste.

* * *

_Haste?_

Oh, well, haste and alarm, because of the fire, you see.

* * *

A tactile creature, my Watson. A war-hardened, sorrow-forged soldier-doctor who has been seen—by me, if by no one else—to put a spring blossom to his cheek to feel its softness.

And it is this gesture that prompts me to think.

And to plan.

My plan comes to fruition on the anniversary of your birth.

“Oh, Holmes.”

You lift the garment from its box.

“This is—“

And then you do what I’d hoped you do: you put it to your cheek.

“Quite lovely.”

Like the mouse-brown colour of the dressing gown, your words are understated, but I am not fooled. You would not wear a garment—even in the privacy of our rooms—the colour of a cursed gem or an Easter bonnet. And I have sunk all the care, and a king’s ransom, not into the colour, but the fabric itself: the finest wool that an English merchant ship may procure.

It is soft, the softest material I have ever felt, as light as gossamer wings, assuredly not the coat of a sheep who’s ba-ba-ba-ed its way across an English countryside. I am the least fanciful of men—

* * *

The cushion harrumphs.

I bow my head, concede the point.

* * *

—without this sweet opiate elixir frolicking through my veins, I am not a fanciful man, but it might very well have been spun from fairy tresses.

The cloth wants to be touched, begs to be touched, so you touch it and touch it and touch it until I am almost unmanned.

“Many returns of the day, my dear man” I say.

You hold my gaze for a long, yes, penetrating moment.

“I would like—,” you say.

I nod eagerly, another fantasy realised.

Then you surprise me.

You retreat to your room.

I smoke.

You could’ve easily donned it here, but the glass. Of course, you want to see your reflection.

I smoke and smoke until my newborn ease is reduced to ash.

I hear your bedroom door open and look up and stand, much like the congregation to a bride.

Oh, Watson.

You are wearing _only_ the dressing gown.

Your eyes are dark with a corrupting lust.

“It is quite lovely,” you whisper as you near.

I pull you close, drop a hand between us, and answer in just as low and husky a tone.

“So are you, Watson.”

In my palm, your hard cock pulses through the wool.

“Quite lovely,” you repeat.

I grunt my reply and bury my face in the crook of your neck as I continue to rub your gorgeous prick.

“Holmes.”

“Anything, anything at all.”

“Your mouth.”

My body and mind sing. “Oh, yes. You want to be sucked.”

“Hmm. Might I, Might I fuck your mouth as well?”

The hesitant courtesy of your tone in those words and the ones that follow makes the request more lurid.

“Just a bit. And gently, of course, I would never—”

I sink my teeth into the side of your neck.

“Please fuck my mouth, Watson. It’s yours to be used.”

You sit in your armchair. I drag a covered stool near, then push my head between the two folds of the dressing gown. I’m just licking and nuzzling as I slip my hands beneath you to grip your buttocks. The wool brushes the back of my hand.

It is a magical cloth, perhaps of the same spinning wheel that produces the carpets that fly or of a smithy of spirit-filled lamps, for it has certainly released the wanton cur inside m upright doctor-soldier.

You sink a hand in my hair and grips it tight, close to the scalp. I move my hands to chair, but still inside the dressing gown.

Your heel digs into the stool. Your other hand is wrapped ‘round your shaft. You paint my lips with your leaking head.

“Give us a lick. Mm. Tongue the slit a bit? Ooo, there’s a pretty thing. Oh, you want to suckle, don’t you? Just the head. Oh, God, yes. Let us feed you a bit more. More? Open your mouth, you pretty thing. Spread those lips, yes, yes. Oh, oh, oh! Filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

I scarcely recognise your voice. Coarse and demanding. Like you hired me.

I hum.

You grunt.

“A songbird? I’m gonna sing, too, you greedy thing. It’s time, sweetness.” You lift one hip. “I need to fuck that mouth. Relax and open for me.”

I do.

You hold my head firm and thrust, first shallow, but deeper with every push.

My eyes tear. I grasp the soft wool far too tightly.

“Relax that throat, pretty thing. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to get a good,” each word is punctuated with a thrust, “hard, deep, wet, warm fuck o’ that mouth.”

You pull back, not out, just back.

“Suck,” you order.

I suck.

“Ah!” you cry. “Ah, ah, ah!”

Your grip on my head is loosened so I bob. A brush of a hand to my cheek is my warning.

You slam into my face. My mouth and throat fill.

I choke, sputter, but dare not soil the dressing gown—any more than it already is—so I swallow the briny bitter seed with a grimace.

“Holmes, Holmes, Holmes.”

You cradle my face in your hands and pepper my face with light kisses. Then your hand is over my own prick.

“Might you, might you,” you kiss the creases of my eyes and I am learning quite quickly to adore your ‘might,’ “sod me with your gorgeous prick.”

You have taken my voice. I can only nod.

You rise and pull me with you. Then you twist and bend with one knee on the seat of the chair.

“We shall need—“ I say hoarsely.

You produce a jar from the pocket of the dressing gown and thrust it in my hand. As I am unfastening my trousers and coating my hand with slick, you raise the back of the dressing gown like a curtain and whimper most pitifully that once again, as the Bible says somewhere, I do not know the man.

* * *

_Your Scripture knowledge._

Spotty, at best, yes.

* * *

With a single finger teasing your hole, something becomes clear.

“Watson.”

“Yes, I was upstairs preparing myself for you. I am on fire for you, my dear, dear man. Please, your cock, please, Holmes.”

We both groan as my aching cock sinks in your tight heat. You might be clenching around me, you might be pushing back so that you are more deeply impaled, I don’t know what you’re doing, but what you’re doing is most assuredly driving me mad.

“Anytime, you’re in this dress, you’re mine, you needy thing,” I growl.

“Yes, Holmes,” you moan.

“Play with your cock, your balls, your hole, bounce you on my lap ‘til you squeal, my pretty,” I slip a hand ‘round and push it beneath the wool to gently pinch your nipple. You grab my hand to keep it there. I toy with your bud until it pebbles.

“Yes, Holmes, please.”

Your arm is curled behind you. I lean forward, you lean back until our mouths met in a rough bite-kiss.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” you plead.

“Oh, I am,” I say. “Then I’m going to lick it out and you’re going to have to stand there, like the good little thing that you are.”

“Oh, God.”

I shove you forward and slam my cock into your hole, once, twice, thrice, and then I’m spending myself in you.

We both shudder, then I drop to the floor and hidden the mouse-brown curtain I make good on my promise.

You babble, but I etch every word on my heart.

“I love you, Holmes. Now and always. I want your hand in mine, your lips on mine, your cock, oh, oh, inside me, your tongue, too, fingers, all of it. I am humbled and proud and mad, so hopelessly, helplessly, mad about you. Oh, my dear, love, my dear man, oh, my sinful beast. Enchanting. Bewitching. And quite, quite, quite lovely.”

I can only bite the flesh of your buttock and mumble, “Many returns of _this_ day, my beloved.”


	8. Bodily Fluids. Vampire!Watson AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Vampire!Watson. PWP. Blood-drinking. Oral sex. 
> 
> Vampire!Watson's backstory can be found in my ficlet [Haemoglobin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6283438/chapters/16261814)

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

_We aren’t speaking of dressing gowns anymore._

No. Vampires.

* * *

“Holmes, will you tell me what Mycroft said or will continue to take your anger out on that poor defenceless Stradivarius?”

“He advised separation.”

“From me? Well, can you fault him? If you know the existence of my kind, then he does as well. Would anyone wish that his brother share rooms with a supernatural being who might, in any moment, rob him of his life’s blood—or worse?”

“Watson, I do not want to separate from you. Quite the contrary.”

“No.”

“Watson…”

“No. I shan’t turn you.”

“You can feed from me without killing me and without changing me into a vampire.”

Bluff. I possess no such knowledge, but you, who have seen me conjure a family’s history from a pocket watch, may believe it.

“I don’t know.”

You speak with a hesitancy that makes my blood warm and begin to migrate to my cock.

“If I were very well fed, but there is a still a risk that I would not stop, Holmes.”

How delightful.

“You will not harm me,” I insist, with purposeful change of tense.

“Only a day-walking fool would make such a statement, but you have my word, for what it’s worth, that I would kill you before I would turn you. I’d much prefer to live with the sorrow of being your murderer than the anguish of being your sire.”

“It is painful, the feed?”

The glint in your eye makes my prick stiffen.

“Oh, no. There are ways of making it quite pleasurable,” you say. “Most of us never bother to employ them. After all…” You wave your hand. “But I’ve used it on occasion, for palliative reasons.”

“Watson.”

You are before the fire, fiddling with your pipe. I approach you. Your body stills when you feel my hardness pressing through our many layers of clothing.

You smile and place pipe and tobacco on the mantelpiece.

“Watson.”

It’s a low whine now. I begin to rut against you.

“Holmes.”

Our mouths meet. I taste tobacco, tea, and whiskey. You, with your heightened senses, must taste so much more.

“Take my blood, Watson.”

“You should be far more protective of your life’s stream.”

Weak protest. You are fondling my aching cock through my trousers far too roughly and watching the pulse on the side of my neck far too closely to be stalwart in your refusal.

“Take all my streams, Watson. My tears, my sweat, my spittle—“

“I have quite a bit already,” you say with a smile, then kiss my lips.

“—and,” I thrust my cock into your palm, “the stream you like most, will like second-most.”

You brush your hand along my inner thigh; my muscles quiver. “I could feed from you here, make a banquet of it.”

“Oh, God,” I groan.

Your eyes are hot with desire, but when you speak, your voice bears a hint of steel. “But first I must feed, and feed well, Holmes.”

“Eat Mycroft.”

You laugh.

“Why not? He’s enormous! Or don’t you like roast boar?” I cry.

You shake your head.

I huff. “Then let’s hunt. Tonight?”

I am eager, shamelessly eager, so shameless, in fact, that I take your hand in mine and draw your touch back to my cock. You drag a thumb back and forth across my shaft and then press a V of two fingers up and down the sides of the bulge.

“I don’t want to wait for this draught,” you say and your voice betrays your need.

I reply by opening my trousers. You sink to your knees.

I feed you my cock right there before the fire, with one hand on the mantelpiece to steady me as I lean.

“You look so beautiful, suckling me, Watson. Yes, you must drink my blood from there, that I might watch you, watch your fangs descend, watch their points pierce the ski—ah, ah!”

You’ve pulled off the better to dive and lap at the acutely sensitive underside of my cock, but I can only endure a few moments of that sweet torture. I yank your head up by the hair, and with one guiding hand wrapped ‘round my shaft, spread your lips by force.

You swallow my cock, then my seed, and I cannot but chant,

“Drink me, drink me.”

* * *

Some four hours later, I chant it anew.

“Drink me.”

“What is it in you that wants to give me that with which no one else would part willingly?”

I shrug.

You have fed on a devilish villain, a walking serpent in a silk waistcoat.

I am nude beneath my dressing gown, seated in my armchair facing the fire. You are kneeling between my legs.

The fire is hot, hotter than it need be, so that my brow might be wet and fulfill my promise to let you lick it from my crown. Which you do. Spittle we have shared, and will continue to share, in copious amounts. You have even tasted my tears, for—after as much begging as earlier—you have sod me quite coarsely, yes, to the point of weeping, _that_ brutishly, with your own cock, but then you fell to the floor and licked my puckered hole and wherever your tongue travelled, inside and out, the burn and ache and pain faded like fog in noon-day sun.

My astonishment showed on my face. You chuckled and bit playfully at the flesh of my buttock.

You are not playing now.

My prick is standing at attention, but neither of us pay it any mind.

You lick a ribbon highway along my inner thigh. Then you tilt your head back and open your mouth.

I gasp.

Your fangs are beautiful, thin and sharper than any rapier I’ve ever seen.

I gasp again when they dimple my skin.

“Oh, God!”

Four pricks of a pin, I feel them, and then wave after wave of pleasure. I am drowning in it. I feel the pounding of my blood. I feel your suckling. My eyes want to close, but I force them open.

I want to watch.

I _need_ to watch.

Far too soon, you are releasing me.

And I come, spurting high like a fountain.

You catch a dribble on a blood-soaked fang as the four recede and I am undone.

You lick your lips in feral fashion and I am undone.

“The blood of the covenant….” I begin hoarsely.

“…is sweeter than any water of the womb,” you say as you press your lips to my palm.


	9. Hot or Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes & Watson in the dry sauna of the Turkish bath. PWP. Short. Anal sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real mystery is how I've made it 8 chapters without heading to the Turkish bath. Also, I think melted moustache wax is a bad idea for lube, but, hey, you're already reading about a talking cushion, so, you know... consider your belief suspended.

You throw your head back. Rivulets of sweat roll down your face and neck and dot the expanse of wooden bench between us. The wet spots disappear. New ones fall.

I draw a hand down your back.

“Holmes, someone might—“

“No one will.”

You don’t ask if I’m certain, and the lapse humbles me. It is a sign of faith  in me not as a detective but as a friend and a man and a lover, and I’d weep if I had any water left in my body to spare, but every drop is being squeezed out through my skin.

“I prefer this,” I say. “The vapour room makes me—“

“Wilt?” you suggest with a giggle.

* * *

_Full giggle now, I see._

It’s part of your charm.

* * *

You look over your shoulder and toss a glance at the tented towel over my lap. “Not wilting now.”

Indeed, watching you sweat is the true luxury afforded by the Turkish bath, and my prick has taken a keen interest in the view since we entered.

I lean forward and peer over your shoulder.

Your prick?

I finger an end of your towel and pull slowly, slow enough for you to halt its removal should you wish, but you allow me to bare you and that alone sends another wave of lust straight to my groin.

Half-hard.

“Oh, Watson.”

You lean back and I press my lip to your shoulder. Your scar is an angry beefy red. I twist awkwardly to kiss it as well.

“Here you are being a romantic, Holmes,” you say. “And I only brought you here for a sweaty buggering.”

“Does one preclude the other? Here let me aide you with your objective—“

You bat my hand away. “For _my_ sweaty buggering.”

I throw the towel to the floor and spread my legs.

You stand and move in front of where I am seated. You rub your face. You are spitting and…something else.

Your wet fist wraps ‘round my cock, and the scent solves the mystery.

I’ve never considered the lubricating potential of the grooming wax for your moustache, but the mixture of sweat and spit and pomade seems to serve nicely as you impale yourself slowly and carefully on my cock.

“Watson.”

The word is imbued with alarm and wonder and caution and inquiry.

“Yeah, I stretched myself a bit earlier, but still—oh!”

The exclamation is one of pain. I place my hands on your waist and hold you as firmly as possible with such slippery skin.

We pause and breathe and drip for a moment.

My hips want to thrust; my cock wants to push deeper inside you, but I refrain.

Finally, you grunt and sink further.

And then I am fully sheathed.

I kiss your back.

“Bounce me on your lap,” you say.

I do and am showered with your sweat.

My hips do what they desire, my cock does what it desires, and you giggle as I come.

* * *

_Whew!_

The cushion swishes a tassel.


	10. Spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discipline of the lower variety. PWP. D/s tones.

The crash sends you rushing downstairs just in time to hear Mrs. Hudson’s parting words.

“Really, Mister Holmes, I would kindly remind you that you are no longer a green youth and that the rooms that I permit you to occupy are not a schoolyard.”

The door slams.

“Holmes?”

I shrug. “Mrs. Hudson is no more a patron of physics researches than she is of chemistry ones.” The hole in the wall and the shattered mirror tell the rest of the story.

“Can you blame her?” you say. “It’s the third incident of damage this week. You really are incorrigible, Holmes. If this were a schoolyard, you’d get a birching from the schoolmaster on a near-daily basis.”

Your words are spoken in jest but my body is aroused, not amused.

I speak in a tone as light-hearted as yours, but brace myself for your derisive response when I say,

“No need to tax our landlady any further, perhaps you could administer the punishment.”

You stare.

Then there’s a moment of comprehension.

And a smile.

“Discipline of the lower variety?” you ask.

My cock stirs. I nod.

You press your lips together and look ‘round the room.

Ah, if you are already contemplating logistical matters, then the notion has surely crossed your mind before now.

Pity that it didn’t cross mine.

I rush to the set of trunks where I keep my laboratory equipment and other philosophical tools. I locate the case desired and open it.

“Holmes!”

Concern. Alarm. Not good.

“Experiments, my dear man. Bruising pattern, you see.”

The assortment of rods and crops and whips and paddles makes for an eccentric collection.

“But you use those on corpses!” you cry.

“They’re clean,” I insist, trying valiantly not to whine.

You frown.

Disappoint seems inevitable, but then you say,

“One hour. Make amends with Mrs. Hudson by whatever means required and meet me, arranged in the proper position, in your bedroom in one hour’s time.”

Proper position.

“Oh, yes, sir,” I breathe.

A twitch of a grin tugs at your lips and I am dismissed.

And drunk on the promise of sixty minutes.

* * *

_Knock, knock._

I quickly assume the ‘proper position’ and say—or squeak, rather,

“Enter.”

The door cracks.

“Keep your eyes on the floor.”

My cock, though pressed into bedding, twitches in response: so very like the hound that hears its master’s bellow that my breath catches. Sleuth-hound. It is in my blood, in my very manhood. Extraordinary.

I am draped across the width of the bed, head hanging down, arse tented up, with my trousers and drawers ‘round my ankles.

“Should both of us find this exercise worthy of replication, perhaps investment in a stand would be advisable,” I say conversationally. “The bed is less than ideal. I am far too tall. I should also like to try it across your lap as well, with just your hand—“

One moment too late, I remember that, for you, this is a punishment, not a performance or an experiment.

_WHACK!_

Stiffer than a whip, looser than a rod. The instrument makes a devilishly wonderful swish as it cuts through the air.

Not a birching rod, no. A thin branch. From a tree. Pear?

Of course.

You were a soldier and a doctor long before you were a writer and a chronicler of detective fiction.

Despite all the florid verse, you are a practical man, a resourceful man, a man of action.

You found a suitable implement from Nature.

Regent’s Park, most likely, based on the time frame.

_WHACK!_

“You will respect our landlady’s property and her peace of mind. Your reply is ‘yes, sir.’”

_WHACK!_

“Yes, sir.”

My cock is suffocating. The pain in my groin is different from, but almost as distracting as, the sting ‘cross my buttocks and thighs.

But nothing is as distracting as your voice, with its battlefield iron and its paternal authority.

“You are a thoroughly naughty boy.”

_WHACK!_

“Yes, sir.”

Yes, sir, please fuck me afterwards.

_WHACK!_

“But not without redemption.”

Redeem me, redeem me, with your cock in my arse and your seed spent deep inside me.

_WHACK!_

“Thank you, sir.”

_WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!_

“It is ’Yes, sir.’ Forget again at your injurious peril.”

I bite my lip for surely the last stroke has cut the skin. The pain is driving out thought of a higher order. More primal, feral notions rise. I am your beast of burden. Your charge.

Your anger, your displeasure, your disappointment, I realise, are to be avoided at any cost and your approval is worth any shame and concession of pride on my part.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper obediently.

_WHACK!_

“Good.”

_WHACK!_

I crave hearing that word from those lips in that tone again, and you must know for you say,

“Good, good boy.”

Oh, God.

My vision has been slowly filling with light as whatever blood is not struggling to fill my aching cock is draining into my dangling head. The buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my face also builds.

_WHACK!_

After pure light, I know, will come pure darkness.

_WHACK!_

The thought ought to disturb, it does not.

_WHACK!_

For I am in your hands. I am yours to do with as you will.

_WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!_

“Yes, sir,” I whisper as the pain recedes and the nothingness overwhelms me.

I am drunk.

I am lost.

I am falling.

I am yours.


	11. Looking after.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-spanking aftercare. With some Christian religious references.

I surface in your arms.

What an unlikely Pietà are we!

Your voice is a hum, its cadence that of prayer.

The sound alone succors me.

I listen, then squeeze air through my lungs to hum along.

The droning divides, and the portioned noises coalesce.

“Such a brilliant man. Such a brave man. Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant. Brave. Good.

My handsome love. My strong love. My beloved. Handsome. Strong. Good.

I love you so. I love you. Love you. Love. You.”

I pluck words from your revolving stream and weave them in a crown for myself.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

Good.

Love.

You.

I float in your warm embrace until my skin splits to welcome the return of my soul.

Body and mind and spirit reunite.

I squeeze my chest once more.

“Watson.”

Your exhale is a cry of relief.

There is a shifting around me, beneath me.

I whimper at even the hint of abandonment.

You make a shushing sound and kiss my temple.

Water.

Falling.

“Ah!” I exclaim.

The compress on my forehead is cool and scented and a surprise.

I inhale. The clockwork mechanism begins to turn. I exhale and say,

“Your time in Australia was well spent, my dear Watson.”

“Your brain has not been damaged,” I hear the smile in your voice, “if you can recognise Bosisto's eucalyptus oil. I did not want to assault you further with morning-room smelling salts. And any other fragrance readily available was either too cloying or simply out of the question.”

“No brandy?” I tease. Watson’s faith in the medicinal qualities of that particular spirit, quite frankly, rival that of a zealot on his way to Jerusalem.

“Oh, I have some ready. I wanted to make sure you could swallow first. How are you?”

I swallow theatrically, then give the question considerable thought.

“Good,” I say. “Quite good. The attic has been liberated of all debris and cobwebs.”

“Well, I did do my best imitation of Mrs. Hudson beating the rug.”

I open my eyes, but the concern in yours makes me close them again before tears threaten to spill down my cheeks.

I choke back a sigh.

Nothing I have done in this life merits such a love as I saw reflected in your gaze.

Then it must be grace.

I press my cheek against your chest and you curl me towards you while returning the compress to the bowl with a splash.

I sniff and listen to your heart and push my undeservedness to the darkest corner of the now-tidy attic.

And then a voice, not yours, but rather one which would not have been out of place accompanying a parting sky or a parting sea, resounds deep in my chest.

Take what is given. Cherish it. Honour it.

I breathe deeply and let it out in a shudder. The bracing aroma of eucalyptus lingers in my nostrils and will for the rest of my days provoke a most visceral reaction whene’er I encounter it.

You hold me and I allow myself to be held until I can finally say,

“Watson, this was a most satisfactory endeavour.”

I aim for the same tone I used after our successful burglary of a Bond Street picture gallery, and your matter-of-fact response is an indication that I’ve hit my mark.

“I’m pleased you think so, Holmes. With your permission, I would very much like to apply a second treatment to your wounds.”

My Watson. Asking for leave.

I hide my smile against your chest.

The many welts and few cuts on my buttocks and thighs are angry but, my rationale mind reminds me, no doubt superficial. They sting, they burn, but I have suffered much more seriously at the hands of villains, blackguards, scoundrels and—the worst of the lot—devoted lady’s maids.

You will hurt me, upon pretty request.

You will harm me, never.

This I know.

“Holmes?”

The doctor speaks, not the lover.

Saying ‘yes’ will be mean leaving the haven of your embrace, so I shake my head and cling like a child.

And like a doting father you say, “Very well. Shall I tell you a story?”

“Yes!” I cry eagerly.

“It is of the queen and her drone…”


	12. Breeding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b x 2. The cushion spoils a pretty story about a queen and a drone. No smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breeding is rarely my thing, but definitely not for these two. Sorry. But Holmes has refreshed his pipe so we should be good for the next few chapters :)

Leaving hive behind, the queen soars.

She is free.

She smiles and stretches and lets an energy as old as creation fill her.

She heads for the sun with a breeze buffeting her tiny wings.

She is weary of being nursed and fed. She wants to reign over the cool air around her and the arcoiris of flowers below.

Her body guides her toward the drones’ impatient buzzing, but even then, her mind tugs at the primal reins, swooping and swirling and looping along the way.

She is free.

Her cares are her own, if for the moment, though she be on the most vital business of her home and her kind.

She’s distracted.

The rich carpet of flowers deserves a second pass.

And a third.

Finally, she turns her attention to the drones.

What a tedious lot!

Except for him.

Oh, yes!

Quicker, you silly hum-drum!

She loops and lunges and does not hesitate for a moment.

He must win her.

Clever drone.

He does.

They crash together.

Let’s fly! he shouts.

And while their bodies answer the calls of their natures, they soar together, over the tapestry of the meadow and through the labyrinthine forest to chalk cliffs and the crashing waves of the sea.

At Nature’s splendour writ large and loud, they shudder with joy, revelling in their mating bliss.

* * *

_You die._

What?

_If I am the drone, I die. If you are the drone, you die._

_The act of mating itself rips the drone’s internal organs from his body, and the queen will go on to mate with at least half a dozen more drones before she returns to the hive for the rest of her life._

What a dull little pillow you are.

Before my eyes, your bright orange-red sours to its earlier dingy spilled-coffee brown and the discolouring outlines of stains and smears on the silk, which had somehow faded during the storytelling, re-emerge. The walls around us draw closer, too, their crumbling, splintering, filthy forgotten-ness becoming more pronounced, more menacing with every pass of my eyes.

_Who dies?_

Oh, do shut up!

_But were you the queen? Or the drone?_

What does it matter!

I hear a hive.

But it is only the collective nonsensical mutterings of my fellow countrymen.

We, the citizens of Xanadu, singing our anthem of despair.

I itch.

My paths are clear: return to work, the exact nature of which eludes me, but I am certain that a trail of crumbs will lead me to it, or return to my Watson’s arms.

My choice is no mystery.

An attendant materializes. Coin presses into palm.

And I surface, once again, into bliss.


	13. Somnophilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep sex. PWP.

“Holmes?”

The word cuts like flint through my bliss-fog.

Struck, I grunt.

A second arrow pierces my side.

“Fuck?”

I grunt again.

They are the only two words you will utter for a short sinful eternity.

Your hot, wordless breath tickles my ear.

You lick along the nape of my neck, then kiss the point of my jawbone. The weight and warmth of your body extends along the length of my spine.

Your mouth moves to the roundness of my shoulder and my dream-mind conjures the scene of a predatory animal gnawing on the bones of its fallen prey.

You bite and lick. Your weight shifts and I, pinned beneath you, sink further into the bedding.

You rise up onto your knees. You twist and bend. You bite and lick down my side. You snort. You nuzzle under my arm and lick. You drag your tongue ‘cross my back, pausing only to pinch skin and flesh between your teeth. You scratch. You tug.

And my feral instincts recognise your gentle mauling.

Mate.

Your growl confirms it.

Mount.

Mate.

I whimper.

Hands spread my legs.

Hands spread my buttocks.

A drop of wetness falls on my hole.

Another.

Another.

You are spitting onto me, into me.

Of their own accord, my hips begin to rut gently into the bedding,

My lips part in a O-shaped sigh when a wide, wet, deliciously wonderful tongue licks the entire length of my cleft.

Slicked fingers probe, then stretch my hole, only halting their work when the tip of a tongue joins them, flicking and licking around the edges of my rim.

I bite my lip and raise my arse, which results in redoubled efforts of fingers and tongue.

Then tongue alone is inside me.

You grunt. You snort. You wiggle that wicked tongue.

You draw away and the emptiness makes me cry out.

At once, you plug me with your cockhead.

I hiss as you push past the first ring of muscle.

Your hands caress my lower back.

Mount.

Mate.

Wet fingers find one of my nipples and pinch hard.

I arch my back.

You sink your cock deeper.

You pause.

More rubbing.

Then you’re fully sheathed.

I am filled. I am full. I am feasted upon.

You lower your head to bite the ridge of my neck, then growl in earnest, which telegraphs in every language, human and animal:

the fucking _will_ commence forthwith.

You thrust until you find satisfaction and spend your seed inside me.

You grunt.

You collapse atop me.

You lick along the nape of my neck, then kiss the point of my jawbone.

You kiss my hair. You nuzzle at my ear.

Your fingers caress my nipple.

Your hand caresses my hip.

Your breath is on my back.

You are looking down.

You raise one of my buttocks.

You drag your fingers through the dripping mess.

And paint my skin with it.

And every stroke seems to say,

‘This is my beloved mate,

in whom I am well pleased.’


	14. Daddy kink.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy kink. PWP.

You wake.

My breath catches. My hand, indeed, the whole of me, body and mind, stills.

You tsk. You tut-tut. You make any number of disapproving noises.

But they are gentle noises. Sitting room noises.

I am not afraid.

Quite the contrary.

“Naughty boy,” you say.

Your voice drips with arousal.

My cock hardens in my hand.

“What have I told you about touching yourself while Daddy is napping?”

Daddy?

Daddy.

Oh, God.

My mouth opens so that my ragged breath will not be quite so noticeable.

“I was warm,” I protest softly.

I roll onto my back, towards you, shifting so that I am tucked beside you on the bed. You are still curled on your side.

“Place your hands by your sides. Sherlock.”

Sherlock?

Sherlock.

Oh, God.

Your voice is exquisite. Warm and firm. I comply at once.

“Only naughty boys touch themselves while their Daddys are sleeping. Good boys wait until their Daddys wake so that their Daddys can watch them play.”

“I couldn’t wait, Daddy. I was too warm.”

You lick your index finger and thumb then stretch a hand across my chest. You begin teasing and toying with my nipples. You rub your thumb back and forth over each bud. You pinch them, very gently.

My cock is on fire. I lift my hips to rut in the ether above the bed.

“Stop that,” you order.

The lower half of my body drops back to the bed.

“Well, if you’re very warm, you can wake Daddy.”

“You won’t be angry?”

“Not if you tell me your warm and need Daddy’s care.”

You lick your finger and thumb again and continue your assault until my nipples are pebbled buds; I grip the sheet beneath me even tighter. Your hand rubs the hair on my chest. Stroking it. Petting it.

Petting me.

I do not fight the urge to purr.

You rub my chest and my belly, but your hand strays no further.

“My good boy,” you say. “My good, good boy.”

I purr and purr and revel in the caress of body and mind.

Finally, you brush your thumb across my bottom lip and say,

“You can wake your Daddy by sucking on his fingers.” You push the tip of your index finger between my lips. I take it between my teeth, into my mouth, and begin to suck. Hard.

“Oh, my,” you whisper. “You _do_ need Daddy’s care.”

With your finger still in my mouth, I follow your gaze to my leaking cock; it juts out angrily from a nest of dark hair.

“Such a beautiful little boy-prick. May I have a taste?” you coo.

I nod.

You pull your finger from my mouth and lower it, catching a pearl of milky liquid oozing from my slit. You put your finger in your own mouth and hum.

“Oh, my good boy. You are too sweet. Daddy’s going to take care of you. His mouth is so dry. Let him drink from your little boy-prick. Will you let him drink from you? Give him every last drop, mind you.”

“Yes, Daddy!” I cry.

“Hands by your side,” you warn. “Or Daddy will be very cross and stop his drinking.”

I shout when you swallow my cock and lift my lips once more but do not dare release my hold on the sheet. On the contrary, my fists clench even tighter. My eyes are pinched shut.

You are sucking and sucking. Your tongue swirls about my shaft.

You hum.

There are no words, but I know the words.

Good boy. Good boy. Such a good boy.

My Sherlock.

I give a strangled cry and come down your throat.

You noisily breathe through your nose and slowly release my deflated prick.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I whimper.

You sit back. I curl forward into your arms.

“You feel better, my good boy?”

I nod. “My Daddy takes such good care of me.”

You smile.

I look down.

Your cock is gorgeously stiff, gorgeously gorgeous.

Suck worthy. Fuck worthy.

Worthy of worship.

“I want Daddy-prick inside me,” I whine. “I stretched my hole while you were sleeping—!”

“Sherlock,” you admonish. “You were playing with yourself quite a lot while Daddy napped. Naughty, naughty boy! I’ve half a mind to put your sweet bottom across my lap right now and give you a bit of punishment.”

Though just spent, my cock twitches. Nevertheless, I exclaim, “No!” and pout and cross my arms over my chest.

You smile. “Oh, my stubborn boy. If you are very warm and cannot find anything to do while Daddy’s sleeping then I suppose you can play with Daddy.”

My cock twitches a second time. “Really? While Daddy’s sleeping?”

“Daddy loves your clever tongue whether he’s awake or asleep, so yes, you may suck Daddy’s teats or lick his Daddy-prick or his bollocks, he loves that—“

“Or tongue his Daddy hole?”

“Oh, yes, play with his hole. He’d love to wake to your little boy-tongue wiggling, worming, squirming, deep inside him.”

It is too much. I need you.

“May I drink from Daddy-prick now?” I say softly. I drop my head and look up at you through a dark lace curtain of eyelashes.

Your eyes are dark, your voice strained when you croak, “Yes, my boy, you may.”

We rearrange ourselves, you, sitting on the edge of the bed and me, kneeling between your legs. You make me clasp my hands behind my back. You wrap a fist ‘round your prick and feed me just your cockhead.

I suckle the whole head, then trace the slit back and forth with the tip of my tongue.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.”

And I realise much too late, far, far too late, what a stupid boy, that _that_ , for you, may be the point of the whole exercise.

I pull back and look up and say, “Sherlock loves his Daddy.”

You smile and brush my cheek with your hand.

Your eyes threaten to tear so I close my own eyes and lean into the caress.

“I want my Daddy’s prick inside me,” I whine. “I’ve been so good.”

“I don’t know about that, but…”

I open my eyes. “Yes?”

You tilt your head in mock contemplation. “If you suckle Daddy’s bullocks very well, then clean his hole with your clever tongue, and ask very nicely, very prettily then Daddy may consider putting his Daddy-prick inside you, you darling boy.”

“Stretch me? Fill me? Make me scream?” I ask eagerly.

“Yes, yes, yes. Come here, my beautiful boy and put that filthy mouth to much better use.”

You roll back on the bed and I follow. You spread your legs and I bury my face between them.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” you grunt as I take each of your bollocks in my mouth, holding, squeezing, suckling, kissing, making love to each flaccid sac in turn, before licking and nibbling along your perineum.

But I’ve only give your puckered rim a couple of teasing licks when your control snaps.

“No more,” you moan. “Daddy needs you now, my beautiful boy. He can’t wait.”

You spring to your feet, dragging me with you. Then you shove me against the bedroom wall, bend me and spread my legs with violent jerks of your hands.

You fuck me roughly, pinning my body into place with your own, pounding my hole with a brutal, and seemingly unending, series of thrusts.

All the while, you are panting, chanting, moaning, groaning,

“Daddy loves Sherlock. Daddy loves Sherlock. Loves him so.”


	15. Piercings or Jewelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Basil & his Prince Albert. PWP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand the term Prince Albert dates from the 1970s and not the Victorian Era, but, hey, it's an opium dream. And I know very little about piercing, so apologies to any enthusiasts if I did the kink a disservice. 
> 
> Also, I think that I forgot to hit 'post' on the somnophilia chapter, so go back to Chapter 13 if you're keen on that :)

The fog is thick and nowhere thicker than here. You’re the last person I expect to see at this hour in this unholy corner of the metropolis, and yet even the fog cannot obfuscate your outline.

I know it so well.

I spring from my hiding place and grab you. You fight, valiantly, until I whisper as loudly as I dare,

“Watson.”

“H—“

Neither of us gives you enough credit for your swiftness of mind.

You realise the situation and deftly swallow the rest of the utterance.

I draw you back into my hiding place.

Your hands still grip my coat.

“What are you about?” I say, like an alchemist, trying to turn worry into anger and, also like an alchemist, failing.

“One of my girls has gone missing.”

Of course.

I have my Irregulars. You have yours, most recruited from a Crippleage and Flower Girls’ Mission home.

“Watson, not that way.” I nod in the direction that you were headed. “There will be grave danger tonight.”

“All the more,” you counter. “If she’s embroiled in it!”

I huff. “I will see to her.”

“And I will see to you!”

“Not like that,” I say coldly.

You rake your eyes ‘cross my face and down to my seaman’s garb.

“I can protect Captain Basil as well as any other man,” you protest.

“No doubt, but then Captain Basil will never return to port again and so much of his work, what he has done and what he might do, will be lost. Be sensible, my dear man.”

“I’ve made a promise.”

“If she’s to be found, I’ll find her.”

You exhale. “Very well. Four feet tall. Six years old. Brown hair, brown eyes. Her name’s Opal. For tears. Find. Her. Or I will.”

You punctuate the last with four hard slaps to my chest, then frown.

You raise an eyebrow, which says, “Holmes?” in no uncertain language, and tap my chest again. Then your lips twist in a smirk.

“Captain Basil is every bit a sailor,” I say.

The smirk remains. “Is he now? I might just like to see that bit of him, next time he’s in port.”

“Noted.”

* * *

You are precisely where I predicted.

In your armchair. Asleep. With your novel spilled onto your slippers and a fire dying in the hearth.

“Watson.”

I have not spared a moment to rid myself of my persona before returning to Baker Street. I hope that the fog has hid Captain Basil well enough, but acknowledge it is a grave risk.

But then, the look on your face when I wake you to say, ‘Watson, I found her and took her home!’ is worth a grave risk.

“Oh, Holmes! Well done!”

I produce the tussie-mussie and present you with it, as commanded.

You smile.

The nosegay bouquet is only the first of a dozen that we shall receive from ‘your girls.’

“And your work?”

“Concluded satisfactorily.”

“You took a chance, returning like that.”

I nod. And confess. “I couldn’t wait.”

You grin.

“To tell you,” I continue. “And to celebrate.”

“Show me.”

I don’t pretend to not understand. I remove my disguise, piece by piece, until my chest and my feet are bare. You flatter me by searching for, then finding, a curiously convenient jar of unguent and opening your trousers and slicking your prick as I disrobe.

I put my hands behind my back and stand, ready for your attention. You drop your hand from your cock at once and lean forward in your chair.

“Oh, Holmes!” Then you lick your lips. “You’ve always had them?”

 _Them_ are a pair of small, thin gold rings, one piercing each nipple.

“Since Captain Basil was born. Though I confess that when I was a boy, I wanted to be a pirate.”

“May I touch?”

“With any part of you.”

Fingertip, tongue, even the leaking tip of your prick, your touch is gentle. You come on my chest, then drag your tongue through the mess and collapse atop me.

We are plastered together on the bearskin hearthrug.

“Who would’ve thought?” you mumble, still drunk on your pleasure-glow. “A pair of rings.”

“Three,” I correct.

You shake your head, then lift it and stare, comically perplexed. “Where’s—?”

I look down.

“Holmes!”

“I honour my queen by decorating the wall with a bullet-hole tribute. I honour her Prince Consort by—“

My cock has been threatening to burst its confines for some time. Once freed, it stands erect, tall, proudly displaying its adornment: a gold ring from slit to glans.

“—imitating his unique style.”

“Prince Albert has—?” you cry.

“Due to the snugness of his trousers. With a chain to adjust the lay of land, so to speak, when required.”

You laugh, then look down. Your eyes darken. “May I?”

“With any part of you.”

I close my eyes as you crawl down my body and shudder as you take my prick into your mouth and begin to suckle.

* * *

_Bollocks and bollocks._

You know, you’re rather coarse for a _silk_ -covered pillow.

_Bollocks that the Prince Consort—or you—have any such things. And I am much more likely to be concerned for your health and your sanity than aroused at the knowledge._

Perhaps, but...?

_Yes, Scheherazade, it was a good story. Now tell another one._


	16. Masturbation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes & Watson discuss the Abergavenny murder. No smut. Just puns! Crack. 221b.

Toast and tea lay before us.

I lower my newspaper. “No mention of the Abergavenny affair.”

“The family will be relieved. Thought I suspect, oddly enough, Holmes, they’re also relieved it _is_ murder, that old Abergavenny did not, you know, die by his own hand.”

You giggle.

“Watson.” The admonishment is mild, so mild it might be encouragement.

“It was, naturally, disturbing to find the old man _in flagrante delicto et ipsum mortuus something-something_ , but I persist in my professional view that it _is_ possible to pleasure oneself to death.”

I wince. “A far more heinous crime is your defilement of a dead tongue.”

“Speaking of, do you think there’s any cold tongue left from yesterday’s lunch? I’ve a _hand_ some appetite. Just like Abergavenny. I suppose he was a busy man. Had his hands full. Often. No good at cards, though; do you know why?”

“He overplayed his hand,” I say wearily.

“Precisely! But I’ve got to hand it to the Abergavenny family, putting the case in your good hands, was, hands down, the best decision.”

“Watson!”

“But if the case gets too sticky, I would advise—?”

“Washing my hands of it?”

“Yes! Just like old Abergavenny wished he’d done! Before he was murdered.“

“Stop! Or there shall be another unnatural death.”

“Very well. Mother always warned I’d go blind.”  
 

 


	17. Costume or Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson appreciates Holmes's disguises. PWP.

I suppose every actor craves an audience, and, perhaps, it is also true that every audience craves an actor. The first encounter of performer and most appreciative spectator occurs in the early days of our acquaintance and, though you may doubt, is entirely by chance.

I was disguised as a sailor and had strayed from the docks far enough to cross your path, but not so far that my character was wholly out of place.

You see me and your gaze lingers for a moment, then you continue on your way as if nothing had happened. At first I think the spark in your eyes was recognition and begin to doubt my skill at subterfuge. The notion troubles me so that I decide to tackle the question directly, even at the risk of making that particular role known at Baker Street and, thus, no longer safe to employ.

I return to Baker Street before you and ensconce myself in my bedroom with the door open. When I hear your return, I call out,

“Watson, how was your day?”

“Tiring. I thought I see a few patients in their homes, but the walking has put a strain on me.”

“Your calls took you near the docks?”

“Well, not very near, but, yes, in that direction.”

“Did you happen to spy a sailor on your journey? Thin moustache? Dark coat?”

“Good Lord, Holmes! How on earth did you know that?”

I step out from the wings.

“By Jove, Holmes! You _are_ a master of disguise!”

“Did you recognise me earlier?”

“No! I don’t think even your own mother would recognise you! Whatever were you doing there?”

“Bit of surveillance. Information gathering. But I seemed to catch your eye and feared the worst.”

You circle me, shaking your head. “No, I hadn’t a clue. But,” and here your voice drops, “may I be bold?” You stop directly behind me.

“Please,” I urge, sensing the shift in the either. My mouth opens in a silent gasp when you press your lower half to mine. “It was not recognition, it was admiration.” You rut once, twice, thrice, then pull back. “And now, knowing that it is you, my dear man, the admiration is multiplied.”

“All the nice girls love a sailor?”

“Perhaps at first, but now…” When you press anew, your cock is half-hard. My gasp is audible this time. “Next time you take up a role, any role, if it shan’t endanger your work, naturally, I should very much like to have your path crossed.”

I look over my shoulder and smile.

“That can be arranged.”

The next time I am a drunken-looking groom. I place myself in your way, tripping you. You hide the spark of recognition in a fit of pique and proceed to berate me for my weakness. Then, preaching a sermon of temperance along the way, haul me to an empty stable, where you proceed to drop to your knees and suck my prick most expertly. I come to crisis down your throat, then help you to your feet.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young man.”

I learn many lessons and instruct a few, for we fuck all over the city.

And regardless the hour or the garb, you are eager for it. From nightfall to dawn’s light, there are dark nooks where hands and mouths can envelope cocks. You and a common loafer are frequenters of these corners, but you are so overcome when I appear as a French ouvrier, the romantic tongue and full beard having a decidedly aphrodisiacal effect, that I am forced to bring you to one of my bolt-holes. You plead for a sodding and I oblige, on a filthy cot, raining syrupy Continental endearments down upon you as I take you roughly from behind and the noise from the rowdy tavern below masks your needy cries.

And age does not seem to wither you or custom stale your infinite lust for variety. I appear as a crone and you chivalrously aide me in cross the street, then remark that you hear a worrisome catch in my breathing, and upon escorting me to your consultation room, proceed to bugger me senseless. The asthmatic old master mariner receives the same dutiful concern, examination, and treatment, but the elderly book-collector is frigged, then sodded, in a shadowy corner of a store-room, hidden amongst piles and shelves of dusty tomes.

The plumber Escott has his pipes thoroughly cleaned, with your tongue buried deep in my arse and your slicked hand pumping my cock, beneath a sink in an abandoned house. And the workman finds a plum job—performing every lewd act that enters your head for five guineas.

And what you do to—and with—the venerable Italian priest, well, that is a tale for a later hour.

* * *

 

_Tease._

 


	18. Exhibitionism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes explains an earlier risk. 221b. Rating: Teen. Some angst. References to period typical homophobia.

“You took a risk tonight, Holmes,” you say as I cross the threshold. I have been careful to leave no trace of the common loafer, whose mouth you fucked so gloriously in a dark corner of the metropolis only two hours earlier, on my person.

“Perhaps,” I admit. I pour myself a whiskey and soda and drop unceremoniously into my armchair.

“We might have easily been caught,” you say. “Or was that the appeal?”

I sip and consider the question.

“No. I get no thrill from being observed or caught out. And had tonight’s adventures resulted in ruin for you, I would have forfeited my own soul to make restitution. I suppose I was just weary.”

“Weary?”

“Of hiding. Of shadows. I wanted to shout, ‘Here I am! This is the man I adore! And here is his scrumptious cock, which I am now going to fall to my knees and worship! I am going to take it in my mouth and bring him to crisis and swallow his bitter seed and enjoy it! And I should like to keep doing it for the rest of my days! And hold his hand! And kiss him good night! And everything in-between!’ So, yes, it was a risk. One not to be repeated, but oh, to love you in plain air, how beautiful!”


	19. Past or Future (Holmes/Victor Trevor/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend visits 221b. Holmes/Victor Trevor/Watson. PWP.

“Victor Trevor.”

“John Watson.”

At the handshake, the fear that I’ve been shouldering since the letter from India arrived suddenly lifts, and I wobble.

“Holmes!”

You both speak at once.

Unison voice, unison care.

I smile.

Dinner is a splendid affair. Lectures on tea cultivation and the Afghan campaign are swapped with tales of cases and university days, and by the time coffees are served, ribald stories and jokes have join the mix.

We return to Baker Street.

“Don’t wake, Rasher,” Victor warns, pointing to the bull terrier sleeping in a sultan’s bed in the corner.

Cigars. More drinks.

And then you are recounting the story of the Sussex Vampire.

“You played rugby?” Victor asks.

You nod. “For Blackheath.”

“I taught Holmes the game. He knew nothing of it when we met.”

You laugh, then censor yourself for Rasher’s sake. “He still knows nothing.”

My skin grows warm.

“What do you say to some tutelage, Holmes?” asks Victor. “If Doctor Watson doesn’t object.”

Your eyes are bright. “I don’t.”

“You want me to place my re-education in your hands?” I say.

“Among other things,” you reply.

Victor grins.

“Very well. But you must allow for a change of costume.”

When I return, you’ve both freed your cocks and are casting admiring glances at each other. Victor is in my armchair.

I know where I want to be.

I kneel before him, and he feeds me his cock.

“I’ve a long journey ahead of me, Holmes,” he says. He pets my head and caresses my cheeks with his thumbs as I suck, then bob. “Part of me wishes I could stay, but the terraced hills of Terai are home now. I am even less at ease in this fog-ridden city as I was, save for in this pleasurable company.” He groans and leans back in the chair as I lick up his shaft and suckle his cockhead.

My hands are braced on his hips, then thighs. I lean forward and raise my arse in the air. You lift the hem of my dressing gown and lick from bollocks to rim.

I pull off, unable to focus on my task while your tongue teases and probes, but inhale sharply when your teeth pinch the flesh of my buttock.

“I see Doctor Watson keeps you in line as I was never able to manage. Here.” Victor makes to stand. I sit back on my heels as you remove my dressing gown.

Victor is soon nude, too. He perches on the edge of the armchair. I lick his bollocks as you lick my rim, translating every caress of your tongue to him. I lick the base of his shaft as you finger me, stretching my hole with slicked digits.

Victor brushes my hair with his hand. “So lovely. Always have been. The way those lips part around a cock.” I take him in my mouth once more when your cockhead nudges at my entrance.

I imagine your faces contorted in pleasure as you fuck me. Together.

“Oh, Holmes.” You are fully sheathed now. You rub my lower back as Victor resumes his petting of my head and shoulders.

“It was all mouths and hands when were young,” says Victor.

You stop. “Oh, you must then.”

And just like that, you’ve switched positions.

“Oh, Holmes.” Victor’s prick is longer, but not as thick. He pumps hard, almost violently, as you hold my face your hands, then kiss my lips.

“Watson,” I whispered.

“Oh, you’ll have your wicked way with us, but first you need to be filled and fucked by the two who care for you most.”

What else need be said?

I swallow you greedily and welcome the flush in my arse and followed by the splashes at the back of my throat.

Towels, wet and dry, are produced, and my own neglected cock makes its raging need known. I bugger Victor while you watch. More cleaning. Then we spill onto the bearskin rug in a pile of limbs. Then there’s kissing and licking, lips and and nipples; then biting and scratching, necks and backs. We wrestle, but the two of you overpower me and slot me forcefully between you. Then both of you are kissing me and your cocks, reawakening, begin to brush mine.

“Watson,” I plead and wince at the need in my voice.

I start with Victor’s cock in my mouth, but he soon pulls back, say,

“No, I prefer to watch.”

He slicks his own hand and pleasures himself, legs splayed, back against the armchair while you take me on the rug.

It feels marvelous to have had both your seeds inside me.

“I want to plug it and keep it,” I say.

I hear your smile. “Flattering but not hygienic.”

“Or efficient.”

You turn me over and at once, Victor’s mouth is on my cock whilst yours is suckling my bollocks. You pause to kiss each other and then resume your ministrations.

Victor sucks so vigorously, my tenuous tether on the physical world snaps.

“Holmes?”

There’s concern in the two voices. “Bliss,” I slur in an effort to reassure. I am cleaned and brought back between you on the rug, with a blanket thrown over our little nest. I close my eyes.

“Watson?” whispers Victor.

“Yes, I should very much like to scrum you senseless.”

“Holmes?”

I grunt my consent, but don’t stir. I’m content to simply listen to the soft grunting and filthy invocations that fall from your lips, the wet noises and the slapping skin and the cries of release.

And when you are clean, you crowd ‘round me even closer and hold me even tighter and you tell me how much you adore me.

And sometime before dawn, a hand finds my prick and strokes me to climax. And sometime before dawn, my mouth and hole are filled once more.

But thankfully, we are roused by Rasher’s barks before any scandal is discovered.

Invitations extended. Handshakes. Farewells.

And past and future bleed back into the present.

 


	20. Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes hears heavy breathing in the lumber room. Crack. Silly. Rating: Teen.
> 
> [Vigor's Horse Action Saddler](https://sherlockkinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/160468876650/prompt-201) is real.

I wake to a grunt.

I listen.

There it is again.

I’m an investigator, a sleuth-hound by breed and training, so I leap out of bed, don my dressing gown, and go in search of the source.

The lumber room.

Something in the lumber room is breathing very hard. I briefly contemplate a world in which my collection of preserved ears has somehow grown lungs, but then shelve the notion as highly improbable. But apart from the ears, there is nothing in the lumber room but unused furniture. And because of the ears, none but I dare enter it.

Well, there is nothing for it. I open the door.

“Watson!”

“Oh!” Puff. “Hello!” Puff. “Did I disturb you?”

“You’re disturbing me now!” I cry.

My statement is true in several respects, for you are shirtless and sweating and pink with exertion, but the greater disturbance is the puzzling thing between your legs. It appears to be the bastard child of a side table and a bicycle.

“What is that contraption that you’re riding?” I ask, not entirely certain that the final word is the most appropriate but you do seem to be, well, going at a trot.

“Vigor’s Horse Action Saddler! It simulates the act of horse-riding!” you pant.

Oh, of course. Horse-riding in the lumber room.

What?!

As lovely as the sight before me is, my curiosity trumps my lust.

“Stop and explain yourself!” I shout.

You stop and bend to retrieve a towel. I am momentarily distracted by your glistening torso, then refocus my attention on your damp, but lovely mustachioed lips as they say,

“The other day when we were chasing Henry Stanton, I let you down.”

“No,” I protest.

You shake your head. “I couldn’t keep up. A stronger, fitter man would’ve caught him.”

“We _did_ catch him.”

“But not in the chase. Then next day, whilst feeling a bit down in the dumps about myself and my stamina, I bumped into ol’ Lispie at the club.”

“Lispie?”

“He used to play with Blackheath, too. After he quit playing, he’d got quite stout, but when I saw him, he looked like a new man. I said ‘Lispie, you’ve dropped more stones than Sisyphus! How’d you do it?’ He just smiled and said, ‘No. 23 Baker Street, Johnny.’ Well, of course, I went straight away. At first, I thought it was a joke because No. 23 is an oculist’s shop, but then I realised I’d heard him wrong, because of, you know—“

“Does he, perhaps, lisp?”

“Yes! Anyway, I’m certain he meant Vigor & Co. at 21 Baker Street, for this was in the window. Sir Henry Thompson endorses it. The Prince of Wales, too, Emperor of Austria, everybody. Stimulates the liver; quickens the circulation; provides relief from gout, rheumatism, dyspepsia; and, of course, safely reduces obesity. The same muscles are in play as when riding. And I have to say, it feels jolly good. Do you want to have a go?”

“No, I’d prefer to watch you.”

“Very well.”

And off you ride.

I feel my own circulation quicken.

“How ‘bout a cowboy gallop?” you pant.

I can only nod and attempt to hide my stiffening cock in the folds of my dressing gown.

“Yee-haw!” you cry and swing an invisible lasso in the air. Finally, after overcoming a stagecoach and guiding your herd back to the ranch, you slow your pace.

“Oh,” you groan as you dismount. “I’m going to be saddle sore!”

I see my chance. “I have a soothing unguent that would be beneficial. I could aide in the application.”

You drop the towel, stare, then smirk. “The Saddler _is_ supposed to create an appetite.”

I grin and say, “Truth in advertising is so rare these days, my good man.”

* * *

Later, when I am coating your cock with slick, I ask, “Lispie? Do you happen to mean Lionel Lithesome Lisperdecker III?”

“Yes! In the House of Lords now.”

“But, my dear Watson, I have it on very good authority that he’s carrying on a clandestine affair with an oculist!”

“What?!” You jerk out of my caress. “But that would mean—“

“That it’s another saddle entirely responsible for his vigour.”

Our eyes meet, then you reach for me and say,

“Oh, Holmes, you’re going to look so beautiful in a bridle.”

And I can only respond,

“Yee-haw!”


	21. Epistolary / Sexting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes's dark mood is lightened by a letter from an admirer. Mostly fluff. A bit of angst. A bit of smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that Ormond Sacker's letter is copied almost word-for-word from another ficlet I wrote called "A Cure for the Morbs."

My dark mood hangs like a heavy grey curtain. Science and crime, food and drink, tobacco and music have all lost their charms. They blend together, losing their individual characters, and then fade. So great is my lethargy that even the effort to draw up a needle of a failsafe remedy seems prohibitively tedious.

My case of the morbs began a week ago. Or perhaps more. Definitions of time, like so many other things, appear arbitrary and insignificant. For a day or two, you watched and said nothing. Then you intervened, gently, then not so gently.

Then you gave up.

What should have stung left only a dull, yet fleeting ache.

I have not seen much of you since then. Or maybe you are here, but just moving about the periphery of my vision like a spectre at the meager feast.

I am not a home to any visitors, regardless of rank, strife, or mission. All correspondence is unanswered. I toss most in the fire, saving only a few pieces for stabbing, affixing them to the mantelpiece with my knife.

The attack on the post usually consumes my allotment of energy for the day. It is my new custom to remain inert from its arrival in the evening until the following morning.

It is my custom until your letter arrives, just after I have not had my tea.

It, the letter, is addressed to me.

You have tried to disguise your handwriting. You have failed.

The envelope—and no doubt the paper it contains—have been pinched from a hotel, of which there are quite a few in the vicinity of your club. The letter was posted near your club as well.

I am curious.

I have not been curious for at least a fortnight. Or possibly longer.

I slit the envelope, draw out the single sheet of paper, and read.

_Dear Mister Holmes,_

_I would just like to say what a wonderful detective you are. Your crime-solving puts every other attempt in the shade. Alphonse Bertillon is not fit to clean your boots; and Tobias Gregson, G. Lestrade, Alec MacDonald, indeed, every detective of the so-called official police force should beg you to give them lessons. You’re much cleverer than all of them, for a start. There’s only one word for your intellect—superior. I eagerly await news of your next triumph in the papers. Yours,_

_Ormond Sacker_

_P.S. I happened to cross your path the other day and I have to say, you’re far more handsome than your chronicler describes._

My face aches.

I am smiling. I have not smiled in three weeks. Or possibly longer.

I retire to my bedroom and continue to smile. I tuck your letter, like a pressed flower, between the pages of a dictionary. And then sometime before daybreak, I take up ink and paper and by the light of a single taper, pen a reply.

_Dear Mister Sacker,_

_Thank you for your letter. I am flattered by your interest in my work and your exceedingly kind words. There is much merit in Monsieur Bertillon’s methods, though his attentions tend to the theoretical, rather than the immediate and practical. The police force, too, have grave limitations, but then they are presented with so many types of crimes, from simple to sophisticated, so who can blame them if their edges are not so honed as one who devotes himself exclusively to the investigation of crimes that require a cleverer, less plodding approach._

_But you mention my chronicler and at him is where much of your praise should be directed. Yes, I have an intellect, strong and singular, if perhaps not even unique. Yes, I solve cases, police matters and puzzles brought to me by private clients. But you would not have heard of me if it were not for John Watson. Oh, my successes might have made news once in a while, but as I do not seek out fame and glory and Scotland Yard inspector are always making, or keeping, a name for themselves, my victories would not appear as often as they do were it not for Doctor Watson’s chronicles. His published accounts have made my business well-known to the reading public and generated a certain amount of notoriety for me, which has, in return, attracted more cases, including ones with features of interest. For this alone, he has my lifelong gratitude._

_But also, the cases themselves might not exist if I did not have John Watson by my side. For since our very first days together as crime-solving companions, I have felt empowered by his presence. And his role is not a small one. He aides me in concrete as well as ephemeral ways. He helps me collect evidence and information. He questions witnesses. He even assists in reenactments, upon polite request. He listens to me as I discuss the case, asking questions, yes, sometimes exceedingly simple and tiresome questions, but he stimulates my mind. And thus, indirectly, he solves crimes himself._

_Also, he protects me. My work often leads me into dangerous situations and John Watson never falters as a brother-in-arms, sometimes quite literally. I walk safer, surer, knowing that he walks alongside me._

_He is loyal. He is patient. He is kind. He is gentle. He shows his concern for my well-being in the most tender of ways. He tends to his patients with equal care._

_But he is not a saint. He knows vice, indulges in it, and he does not judge the indulgence of it in others until it leads them to harm of themselves and others. And he never lacks a compassionate, encouraging word or a gesture of solidarity for anyone who is genuinely striving to throw off a crippling yolk._

_Sherlock Holmes is a great detective because he has so stalwart a companion as John Watson in his life._

_My sincerest gratitude, once again, for your kind, and most timely, missive. I, too, await my next adventure, but until then, I remain, yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_P.S. I trust I am not presuming by your own flattering post script that you are in any way insensitive to physical beauty in its many manifestations. You have been frank with me, dear admirer, I shall be frank with you. To say I think my chronicler quite handsome is understatement. I keep this secret guarded most hours of the day, but when I am alone, when my mind is free to wander, I fly to John Watson’s arms. We kiss and touch and divest each other of the world’s expectations and its raiment. I explore. He does, too, in his own way, which is different, but oh so complimentary to mine. I know his weight on me, his wet mouth on every nerve-rich site of my exposed flesh. He takes me and allows himself to be taken by hand, by mouth, by stretched and puckered hole. Everywhere. Breakfast table. Abandoned hansom cab. Dark side street. In front of the sitting room windows on a foggy night. In my reveries, we are always hungry, for in this life, as you may, applying my methods, deduce, I am quite starved. So, I thank you for the praise heaped upon me, but counter that I am only the humble moon, a celestial orb which, though favoured by the poets, rises at the hour all good people are resting their good heads in their good beds. My shape and form are influenced by the far more steady and strong and luminous day-shining body which is John Watson. For you see, just as he conducts insight, I enjoy and reflect his light._

This is the letter I write.

This is the letter I burn.

By the flame of a single taper, sentiment becomes ash.

The hour is early, but not inconvenient, to ask Mrs. Hudson or one of the girls for water.

I wash. I shave. I trim and groom. And, clad in my second-best suit, I appear at the breakfast table and interrupt your perusal of the morning news with a dry question.

“So, what were the criminal classes of London about last night, Watson?”

Your newspaper falls.

And your sweet smile I keep in my memory, tucked like a pressed flower between the pages of a dictionary.


	22. Body Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disciple Holmes massages God Watson. PWP.
> 
> A tribute to one of my favourite fics of all time: [He Could Only Guess at the Sounds from the Old Books](http://archiveofourown.org/works/563692) by the incomparable Berlynn Wohl.

I prepare the room. Candles, short and stout and many, decorate three walls. Juniper incense burns in a corner. The oil is my own creation. Crafted for this purpose alone, it is a blend of benzoin, frankincense, myrrh, and naroli. Vines of jasmine curl from a glass jar, which sits on the table where your gaze is most likely to rest, should you bless the rite by opening your eyes. Another table holds towels, large and small and water for drinking and for cleansing and baskets for discarded linen. Above the centre table, a canopy of thin muslin hangs from the ceiling with dried jasmine scattered in its billows.

I am barefoot, and beneath the dark, hooded robe, I wear only thin drawers.

I raise the hood and ring the bell. Then I quickly move to the corner farthest from the entrance. I face into the walls, bow my head, and hide my folded, clasped hands in the draping sleeves of the robe.

I hear you enter the room with my mortal ears, but I feel your nearness in my disciple’s soul. It is sweet like jasmine and smooth like oil and warm like candle flame.

I dowse my rising joy. I have a task to perform and it will not do to be carried away before the rite even begins.

I hear you settle yourself on the table.

Only when the room is quiet and still for three long, deep breaths, do I turn.

My god.

I bite my lip and force my legs and feet to step carefully towards you. Your bare back dips, then is hidden by a folded white sheet. Your shoulders are round with muscle, your arms, too, lying by your side, are strong and sinewy. Your face is buried in a padded ring.

Your beauty dazzles me, but then I remember my anxiety.

I must be worthy of performing this rite and the first element of worthiness is the worthiness of tools.

I pour a small portion of oil in my cupped palm and add a pinch of jasmine petals. I put my two hands together and hold the offering beneath your head.

Your inhaling breath is like wind on the sea, stirring the waves.

My heart waits. My breath stills.

“Good,” you say.

My heart leaps. My breath flees.

I wipe my hands and prepare the oil, which is poured into warm clay bowls.

“Good,” you say while my back is still turned.

I start, then realise your head is lifted, your face tilted toward the jasmine in the jar.

You lower your head.

One corner of my mouth twitches.

But pride has no place here.

I stand beside you, take a deep breath, surrender my being unto your care and into your service, and place both hands on your back.

You will judge my worthiness from this gesture alone.

“Good,” you say.

I celebrate by throwing off my robe and setting about my work.

Up and down.

Down and up.

Crest and trough.

My oiled hands glide upon your skin, then press into your musculature.

Your neck. Your shoulders. Your back. Your calves and upper thighs.

With each pass of my hands, with each pause for kneading fingers to discover, then ease a stubborn knot, I feel the membrane that encases me weaken. It is as if you are guiding my hand, you who willing me to discard the sheet, you who are bidding that I massage your lower back and buttocks with deep, firm strokes.

“Good,” you say as I mount the table, straddling your legs without placing any of my weight on you. Parallel hands run up and down, down and up from the trough at the base of your spine to the crests of your round arse cheeks.

I dismount and stand beside you with head bowed, hands clasped.

You turn over on the table.

“Good,” you say. I follow your gaze to the hanging jasmine--scented clouds.

I place myself immediately at your feet and I require all my considerable self-control and, I know, not a little of your grace, to fall upon them in blissful sobs.

I massage your feet. I massage your hands. I massage your neck and head, temples and scalp. My hands smooth your hirsute chest from above.

When all but your cock has been anointed, I resume my waiting position beside you, that of head bowed, hands clasped.

“Well done, good and faithful servant,” you say. “Complete your adoration.”

I tremble, but only for a moment.

Then I am atop the table once more, licking and suckling your flaccid sacs, then fondling them until they drip sweet-scented oil.

Your cock rises and as it rises, it grows and lengths to a massive shaft with bulbous head. I realise at once that I may only be able to take half in my mouth, but take half I do, hungrily. The base and lower half, I worship with slick hands.

The body beneath me tenses and I am struck with the fear that I shall not be able to consume what your immortal form sees fit to produce in its moment of earthly crisis.

I feel a calming hand on my head—or is it my soul?—and remember worry is for naught.

Surprisingly, you are no more, no less, no different than any other cock-bearing mortal.

Bitter, sticky, seedy.

I swallow and dismount.

You turn. You reach back with your arms. You spread your buttocks.

“Claim your reward,” you say.

Joy strikes like lightning. I leap upon the table and divest myself of my drawers.

I bend to lick your rim and you grunt. It is the first noise of displeasure that you have uttered and, like the pet that I wish to be, I whimper.

“Claim. Your. Reward. The time for service has ended,” you growl.

At once, I nudge your hole with my cockhead and, of course, your hole stretches and draws my erect member inside you.

Your cavity is smooth, wet, warm, inviting.

I claim my reward. I thrust.

But just as my pleasure builds, just as your hole caresses my cock with pulsing squeezes, I realise, and here I humbly admit that the realisation dawns far too late for someone who has been your disciple since their first through formed, that at the moment of crisis, it is not I who will be filling you, but rather you who will be filling me. You will fill me until I—the part of me that is separate from you—finally bursts its foolish, worldly confines and is enveloped in you.

I thrust and thrust. I grow warm, hot, every fibre aching with pleasure wanting and pleasure sating. Dried jasmine rains down as my hips buck. I cry out with your name, a name I have never before had the courage or the scholarship to pronounce, on my lips.

Then a voice bellows,

“Welcome, beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

And then, I am no more.


	23. Priest or religion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson & a venerable Italian priest on a train. Public sex. Oral sex. 
> 
> Quotes from the Old Testament Song of Solomon/Song of Songs.

“It seems we have this fine compartment to ourselves, Father,” you say as you settled yourself opposite me.

“Quiet and comfort, what blessings,” I murmur.

I am the picture of a venerable Italian priest in my black cassock and dithering manner. A heavy wool blanket is folded beside me on the seat to combat that scourge of the elderly: bitter cold.

The train pulls away from the station.

“Perhaps a verse of Scripture for the journey?” I suggest as I tap the holy book in my lap.

“By all means,” you say.”

I open the book. “The occasion calls for ‘The song of songs, which is Solomon's,’ I believe.”

“It does, indeed,”

Your reply stirs me, so I hastily begin,

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth…”

No sooner have the words left my lips than you are standing and drawing the window shade and falling to your knees. You make quick work of the lower buttons of the cassock, then ease my thin trousers down to my ankles.

“O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs…”

You are, indeed, nuzzling my clefts, licking my secret places. It is glorious.

“Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes…”

Now you are licking: my rapidly stiffening shaft, the crease of my thighs, my tufts of wiry hairs, and yes, oh, yes, my sacs, my tender grapes. I spread my knees and lift my hips offering you as much liberty as my hobbled ankles afford. Eat them, eat them, my body says, please feast.

I set the open book on the seat beside me and pet your head as I push into your suckling mouth.

“My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break…”

O, were that your mouth, just there, licking, teasing my cockhead, while one hand fondles my bollocks and another extends towards my hole, could remain, I would not complain, nay, I would willingly, wantonly submit myself to a whole night’s, many nights’ pleasures.

"Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.”

A wet finger traces my rim while you blow—or rather suckle—upon the garden of my blood-filled cock. My spices, indeed, mount, threatening to flow out. Oh, how you swirl your tongue and tease my slit as if my prick were the ripest, most succulent drupe of your tasting.

“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely.”

You bob, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth.

Altogether lovely, indeed.

There’s footfall in the corridor.

I reach for the blanket and drape it over you, hiding you completely. I set the book atop the mound. You cease bobbing, content to still yourself, except for your exploring tongue and your spit-slicked finger burrowing deeper into my arse.

As the ticket collector goes about his business, I finish my recitation.

“I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves. The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.”

The ticket collector nods and smiles as he leaves.

The door closed, you rise and swallow my prick once more, and I roughly fill that warm, yielding cavity until the tip of my cock brushes the back of your throat. I thrust until—

* * *

_Wait._

What?!

Forgetting that darkness cannot be dispelled like smoke, I wave my hands.

_There he is._

Who, you wretched cushion? Oh, you should be sliced into a hundred—

_There’s John Watson._


	24. Coitus Interruptus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cushion interrupts Holmes's reverie. 221b. No smut.

You are wretched, truly wretched.

I am also wretched.

I am sober, a truly wretched state in which to find oneself when everyone about is still frolicking on the shores of Xanadu. But there is no more sobering notion than being discovered by the object of my reveries. He would think that I had added opium to my vices and scorn me. Or, worse, pity me.

_He doesn’t scorn or pity you now, and he knows your vices, well, at least the ones that don’t have you dressed as clergy and being fellated by him on a train. And that fellow bore a strong resemblance, you’ll admit._

I admit nothing! John Watson wouldn’t visit the “Bar of Gold” opium den.

_Not even in aide of a friend or patient?_

That was not John Watson. You are John Watson, the cushion from Porlock!

A vague ‘a bit more’ gesture brings the attendant. My last coin disappears in his hand.

_Ah, maybe you have added opium to your vices._

Ridiculous.

_Addicts lie, to themselves, to everyone._

Are you going to listen?

_I always listen, Holmes._

Don’t call me ‘Holmes.’ Watson calls me 'Holmes.'

_But I am Watson._

You’re a cushion, standing, or rather lying-in, for Watson. Let’s go.

_Where do you want to go, Holmes?_

I want to return to the Turkish bath.


	25. Five Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Turkish bath again. Tentacles.

How you love your bath!

A soft, thoroughly contented smile has been on your lips since we settled here, on a pair of lounge chairs by the pool in the lowermost level of the establishment.

A whiff of upstairs’ Hamman’s Bouquet lingers in the air as do the aromas of the ancient oils, unguents, and spiced treatments that linger on your skin. If the pleasant mingling of fragrances, new and old, is a treat for my olfactory sense, how much more must it be for you, who will cross a busy street to better inhale a baker’s warm-bread attar?

Your belly is full. The bath, perhaps because of the bank holiday for which most Londoners have headed to the seaside, offered a special treat: an array of ‘nibbles’ as you mischievously called them. Nuts, cheese, olives, bits of the bread that you so favour, as well as an extraordinary selection of cured meats from near and far. All washed down with a quite serviceable burgundy and, doctor’s orders, a copious amount of water. You lick your lips and perhaps the medley of sharp, briny, savoury, pungent flavours are still on your tongue, if not certainly in your memory.

And oh, how you have been touched! By dry heat, by near-scalding vapour, by expert hands, by soft towels, and most notably, by rough brushes, their bristles scouring, scourging all but your most tender spots. The last is a treatment that you enjoy—the appeal escapes me, I’m afraid—on occasion and it always leaves you slightly, and temporarily, thank goodness, stupid. You once remarked you felt like a hatchling emerging from its shell and the comparison, I confess, is apt.

It’s almost silent here in the stone-tiled cellar. There are four still-water pools. The only one besides ours that has bathers is the farthest. They are hidden behind a standing screen, engaged in as quiet a carnal activity as three adult males can. Attendants scurry about like mice. Welcome, helpful, but still furtive, condemned to shadows.

I know your sleep and when the rise and fall of your chest quickens, I wake you with a simple,

“Swim?”

You grunt.

We made our way to the stone steps. This pool is the warmest of the four. The selection was not an arbitrary one. I have a confession. A revelation.

The water stirs me in ways that are very familiar and ways that will never been familiar. The phrase ‘at home in one’s skin’ comes to mind. How can one be at home when one must share quarters with so eccentric co-lodgers? Perhaps I should ask you.

The warm water is up to my shoulder. My secret will not be secret for much longer.

You return from a lap to the far edge of the pool.

“Watson, I have something to say.”

You grin and wink. “If you’re not planning to have your wicked way with me, Holmes, I shall be disappointed.”

Oh, you’re in a fine mood. How I hate to spoil it. I take a deep breath.

“Sometimes you say what I do, how I know characteristics and movements of people simply by observing them, how I solve puzzles and crimes, is supernatural, that my brain is otherworldly. It is not my brain, but rather my corporal self, well, one aspect of it, that is supernatural. Or perhaps mythological.”

And as if on cue, out they go. Eight tentacles issuing from fissures in my back.

Your eyes widen. You mouth opens as if to scream.

“They will not harm you,” I pledge, infusing my voice with as much gravitas and sincerity as I am able.

“You? They?” you squeak, stepping back, and looking around. We are alone, of that I made certain before entering the water.

“I will destroy myself—and them—before I allow them to hurt you, you have my word. The warm water is stimulating for them. Quotidian life rarely affords opportunities for such exercise and extension. It feels…good.” Like a burden lifted and a delightful stretching at once.

“I understand if you wish to leave,” I said plainly.

You frown, then tilt your head. “May I touch them?”

One corner of my mouth lifts. “They would very much like to touch you.”

Your eyes darken, but you’re no fool. You extend a tentative hand and the thinnest appendage curls ‘round your index finger. You shake your head slowly.

“They want to touch me? Everywhere?”

Oh, Watson.

“Yes.”

Your lips twitch in a smirk.

And later, with your arse filled and your prick wrapped and your nipples covered, you will spit out the tentacle you’ve been suckling on long enough to pant, “Every bank holiday, Holmes.”

“A standing engagement?” I whisper, my voice strained with pleasure, mine and theirs as well as yours, which is being telegraphed along the corded ribbons.

“Yes, oh dear God, I feel like the _Marie Celeste_ ,” you reply as we bob together in the water, drowning ourselves once more in pleasure.


	26. Voyeurism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The yellow fog hides a lot. Voyeurism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are likely to be short as I sprint toward the finish line. Really, these are shaping up to be word sketches for potential longer fics, so if you read something you'd like to see fleshed out (heh, heh) more, please drop a comment and let me know!

“Bit cold for spring,” you say as Mrs. Hudson clears the breakfast things.

“Indeed,” I am standing at the windows, fiddling with my first pipe of the day.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for breakfast and the cheery fire.”

“You’re most welcome, Doctor.”

After she leaves, I remark petulantly, “It was _I_ who did the cheery fire.”

“You stoked it, once or twice. She—or one of the girls, but most likely her—laid it and will clean it after.”

“The stoking imbues the cheer,” I protest dryly.

You move behind me. “Difficult to believe we live in the centre of a bustling metropolis of four million people. With fog that thick, everything and everyone are dark, shapeless blurs moving through the yellow miasma.”

“Criminals and their victims included, my dear Watson.”

“Do your evil deed and slip back into the cover of nothingness?”

“Precisely.”

“Shall we join them?” you ask as you slide a hand ‘round my waist and cup the front of my trousers.

I start and look over my shoulder. The glint in your eye is, indeed, quite wicked.

“Watson, you would expose me, defile me, here, where anyone might see? Where we might both be arrested and ruined at any moment?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Oh, God,” I reply and pass you my pipe. I hear it find its way to the desk.

Quite quickly, my trousers are open, my soft prick is out. I keep my gaze on the blurs. I hear the lid of a jar being removed.

As a deliciously slicked hand fondles my cock and bollocks, you whisper, “Here, world is the great Sherlock Holmes, willingly allowing himself to be pleasured in plain view.”

My prick twitches and begins to show interest in the performance.

“His is a shy one, ladies and gentlemen, that requires coaxing and gentle persuasion and tender teasing to show its full glory. Come on, handsome.”

I oblige.

After a few minutes of flattery and caress, I am at full-mast.

“Mrs. Hudson,” I warn.

“Has seen a lot in her day. It’s difficult to shock the woman in charge of making certain one’s drawers are clean.”

“There’s truth in that,” I admit. “I enjoy being in your hands, Watson.”

Your strokes quicken, your grip tightens.

“I adore showing you off, in print, on the street, in the window, anywhere.”

I look down for the first time. My flush member glistens with slick; a few milky pearls ooze from my slit.

“I’d love to taste you, but it would obscure the view.”

“Next time,” I suggest hoarsely as my body tenses.

“And the next time, might I bugger you senseless whilst I do this?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

We bend together and I paint the glass with my spurts.

“Beautiful,” you say.

“Just like the weather,” I add when I’ve regained my senses. “That the yellow fog might be stubbornly reluctant to lift.”

In fact, you make good on every filthy promise, and I come—and come to love the yellow fog.


	27. Lingerie, heels, dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little affair of the Vatican camisoles.

“My dear Watson, your visit to the _bureau de tabac_ was ill-timed, we’ve had a special delivery.”

“Oh, yes?” You take the missive from my hands, sparing a curious glance for the unwrapped box on the hotel bed, before reading.

Your eyebrows rise.

“Congratulations from the Pope for resolving the Cardinal Tosca affair. Well, well, it isn’t every day that one, even you, receives praise from so lofty quarters. And he says that there’s a token of his appreciation. Oh, and I warrant a laudatory mention in the post script. Very nice. So that’s the token? Bit of fine linen? Tablecloth, something of that sort?”

“Excellent supposition, Watson, one I might have made myself. But no, and even I could not have anticipated this.”

I lift a thin-strapped, lace trimmed bodice-like garment of pale purple satin from the box.

You whistle, then frown. “There’s been an error, certainly? Someone’s lover will be very cross.”

I shrug. “Note and box arrived together.”

Your confusion dissolves into mirth. “How extraordinary!”

I laugh, too. “Indeed. One would hardly expect his Holiness to have such fine taste in _lingerie_.”

You giggle as you drop the letter on the bed and take the garment from my hands. “Wide enough, though the torso is a bit short and your, uh, cups do not runneth over quite so amply, but,” you look from it to me and shrug, “it will fit, I think.”

Watson, you are a wonder!

“It’s called a camisole,” you continue. “And, uh, usually there is a matching bit for the lower half.”

Your gaze returns to the box. I draw out a confection of violet ribbon and lace. “Like this?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“And his Holiness has not forgot you, my dear Watson. There is a second ensemble.”

It is identical to the first, except the satin and ribbon are a much deeper purple.

Your jaw drops, and you sigh, a sigh that cannot but thrill me, and I hope, be a portend of sighs to come,

“Oh, Holmes.”

When you recover yourself, your tone is a professional one.

“Well, they’re clearly of superior quality. The stitching, the embellishments,” you say as you finger the ribbon rosebud adorning the neckline, “French lace. Italian satin. I suppose a man accustomed to wearing fine, but unusual vestments cannot but think that others share his habit?”

“Watson, you are a wonder!”

“How’s that?”

“Most men would have nothing but derision for such a gift.”

You shrug. “I am not most men.”

“Indeed, and what a blessing that is. Does your singular nature allow for trying on our gifts?”

You smile. My heart beats fast—and even faster when you say,

“Oh, Holmes, we must.”

* * *

“My girth,” you lament for the second time.

“Nonsense.”

“I fear I will pop the seams, Holmes.”

Of this garment, perhaps, but I have already plans to place a discrete bespoke order at an establishment here in Paris for something that will fit you like a glove.

A silk glove.

“You look lovely, Watson. If I may indulge in a fitting superlative, divine.”

We face each other, kneeling on opposite sides of the bed.

“As you do you, Holmes. Yours’s lilac, I think. Mine’s lavender.”

My skin warms at your lusty gaze. A coquettish smile seems quite in order.

“God, Holmes, the thoughts I’m thinking, I don’t imagine His Holiness would approve.”

“I don’t know, Watson. Why else would he send such inspirational gifts?”

“Quite devilish for a pontiff. Aren’t we supposed to be led _not_ into temptation? Your prick, straining against that lace, is the very definition of it.”

I wonder if you know that you are licking your lips.

“Watson,” I moan. “Taste me.”

You lunge and after a bit of wrestling and grunted negotiations, we decide upon curling head-to-foot on the bed so that one may suckle a hardening prick through lace whilst the other’s hands roam over satin and skin. We spend ourselves quite quickly, and, yes, as feared, seams do pop.

We are still tucked around each other when we hear a commotion in the hallway.

You sit up.

A woman’s voice. A man’s. French.

“An argument? Lovers’ spat?” you say.

I nod. “She’s angry, upset. He’s apologetic.”

You shrug, then something hits the door to our room. Another door slams. Footsteps receding. Silence.

My curiosity might be well-known, but I will contend to the end of my days, that yours is stronger. You creep to the door and look through the keyhole.

“Watson!” I warn as you crack the door. You bend down, then pull back and close the door.

“Oh, Holmes,” you say. Your eyes fill with tears and you burst into laughter. “There _was_ a terrible error!” you cry as you double over and open your hand to reveal its contents.

A pair of rosaries.


	28. Begging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest is not mere appendix when it's behind bars. Cock cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The few Victorian cock cages I saw were pretty gruesome-looking so let's imagine Holmes in a slightly anachronistically modern one. 
> 
> Also, I'm switching up the order of the last four prompts to wrap up the challenge.

“I wish you’d put yourself under my care, my professional care,” you say. “Three significant cases in quick succession may have done wonders for the safety of this great metropolis and the reputation of Scotland Yard, but they’ve wreaked havoc on your physical person.”

“I am brain, Watson, the rest of me is mere appendix.”

“Well, your appendix is withering before my eyes, and if it ruptures, your brain might not have a crack at another case! A sensible regimen of diet, sleep, physical exercise, even for a short duration would benefit you enormously, Holmes.”

“I’d sooner put my prick in a cage and give you the key,” I say testily.

“That can be arranged as well,” you reply in a stern voice that sends a bolt of want to my groin.

I cross my legs and huff, then rise sharply, mumbling something about having a shave.

Amidst clouds of lather and swipes of blade, I contemplate my suggestion and your response and the potential scenarios, each one, quite frankly, more attractive than its predecessor. By the time I am wholly de-whiskered, I am also aroused and emboldened to the point of strolling into the sitting room and putting the matter before you most directly.

“Your last offer was a genuine one?”

“It was. With the provision that you accept the first.”

I pivot and huff.

“One week,” you say. “Eating, sleeping, exercise, smoking, all in moderation. Call it an experiment.”

I turn back quickly, looking over my shoulder at you. What a cunning thing you are!

I nod.

“Excellent,” you say, rising from your armchair. “I shall select the most appropriate device for our purposes.”

Your words thrill me beyond measure.

“Apology for the delay,” you say. “The existing designs were all a bit medieval, I had to find a craftsman—or rather, craftswoman—who was willing to entertain my more humane, hygienic vision.”

Oh, to have been a fly on _that_ wall!

“Should fit nicely under clothing. There. Yours to lock.” You hand me the key. I do so, then hand you key, which you string on a long, thin chain around your neck.

“Appendix,” I say, with pure bravado.

“By the end of the week, you’ll be begging for it,” you say as you drop the key beneath your clothes.

“Taking it from you, you mean, by force.”

You tilt your head, shrug. “Perhaps. But more likely, begging.”

The first three days are continuous tedium. Meals, sleep, long walks, made far less enjoyable by prescription. The highlight is a bit of domestic sparring practice, which I use to vent my frustration. The cage is removed once a day, for your examination, which is, disappointingly, a thoroughly professional endeavour.

It is the evening of the third day when things start to take an interesting turn.

Just about the hour when I expect you to announce, in a nauseously nanny-like tone, that it is time for bed. You retrieve the key and hold up a portion of the chain so that it swings like a pendulum, catching and sending firelight dancing about the room.

“It’s a heady affair, Holmes, to have such control over another. What trust! What surrender! I don’t know that I could do it.”

“Appendix,” I huff, though not as derisively as I might. “Plus, I do trust you with my life.”

You turn your head and smile a half-smile. “Mine’s not appendix.” You lift key and chain from your neck, placing the key in your palm, which you then place atop the front of your trousers.

You rub and say, “Time for bed?”

“No,” I reply like a stubborn child.

You remove your caressing hand. The small metal key is easily seen on the dark fabric of your trousers; it slides as the bulge forms. You catch it by the chain and meet my gaze.

“Your prick is mine, Holmes.”

That tone. It is the one of earlier, the moment that this madness began, and there is only one possible reply,

“Yes.”

“Heady. Intoxicating.” You open your trousers and free your erection. I stand and retrieve a jar of unguent, hidden among the multitude of oddities and debris on the mantelpiece, and toss it to you.

I remain at the fire, watching as you slick your member. Then you ease your trousers further off your hips, the better for you to cup your own bollocks with one hand whilst the other strokes the thick, ruddy shaft.

“Mine,” you moan. “Your delicious sex is mine.”

What a wanton sight you make!

My body stirs.

“Watson.”

You crack an eye and mistake desire for scorn. “Ridiculous, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be the one in the control and I’m the one frigging myself like a schoolboy. Your prick is mine, mine, mine,” you chant as you spend yourself.

I offer a handkerchief. You clean and set yourself to rights. “Time for bed,” you say.

We retire to our separate rooms, but, of course, I don’t sleep. I lie atop the bed, nude save for the bits of metal and leather that imprison my pelvis. I think of you and rub myself to naught.

The fourth day, my peevishness is ill-contained. I pace until you suggest a mid-morning ramble, which turns into an all-day sojourn. We pause only for a light luncheon made sour by my pique.

Only one of us is exhausted upon return to Baker Street.

“I shan’t sleep.”

“You shall.”

“No.”

What happens next happens with extraordinary haste. You grab me, throw me over your shoulder and haul me upstairs. At first, I am too stunned to respond, then to aroused and—to be honest—too curious.

“Nightclothes?” you ask as you strip me.

I growl.

You chuckle and toss me on the bed.

I have underestimated your physical strength by at least a factor of ten, I realise with great humility. And of the whole sequence, the next bit is what makes me curse the cage for the first time.

You stand at the edge of the bed and remove your clothing, efficiently, but almost gracefully. Your gaze is hard, firm, daring me to dart for the door. Or scream.

I am tempted to feign both just to be on the receiving end of your swift and sure reaction.

The temptation is too great. I flee.

You catch me, pitch me back onto the bed, press your own body atop mine. Then you wriggle like a fish on land, with my hobbled form serving as the shore, and divest yourself of the remainder of your clothing.

All save the chain and the key.

We are both panting, staring at one another.

“Sleep,” you order.

“Like this?” I protest.

“Yes.”

“You first,” I say and in a singularly bold act, I reach ‘round and grab your buttocks with two hands.

“Oh,” you groan into my ear and my prick rattles its bars. “What a sleeping draught! Better than laudanum!”

“How would you know?”

You chuckle and sit up and twist. Another small jar of unguent is produced, as if by magician’s conjuring.

“Let me,” I say when I see what you’re at. “My fingers are longer.”

“You’re the captive; I’m the whore,” you exclaim. Your prick is wrapped in your own slicked fist. With every rock of your hips, you impale yourself further on my index finger.

“More, Holmes, please,” you whine, wriggling your bottom. I must brush that most tender of spot for you cry out.

My cock would be more.

It is the second thought of liberation I’ve had since our experiment began.

I squash it and say,

“My prick is yours. Mark me with your seed.”

“Fuck, yes.”

You leap and turn and spurt on my belly, chest, and chin, moaning, “Mine, mine, mine,” and ‘til that moment I’d not in all my years been witness, nor party, to more primitive a tableau.

I want to weep, for the gentleness with which you clean me, for with the sweetness of the endearments and mutterings that accompany your kisses to my face and forehead, for the hard throbbing of my caged cock.

You sleep, curled beside me. I watch the rise and fall of your chest. I could liberate the key, relieve myself, and return it to its place without you being the wiser. I could forfeit the game, but perhaps—and this is my dread—in doing so I will forfeit the opportunity to have those hands on me, that hole stretching ‘round my member.

I am not so far gone as to chance that, but then it is only the fourth day.

“Your prick has a slight bend to the left,” you say on the fifth night.

“It does.”

“I shall remember that.” Adding authenticity to your reverie, your self-pleasure! “I was thinking of having a reproduction made, for my own private, personal use.”

I bite my lip, then manage, “How flattering.”

The last of my reserves catch fire in the dark heat of your eyes. I say, “Perhaps my tongue can serve as understudy until a harder substitute may be fashioned.”

Your bed is too far.

We are naked in mine and I am tongue-fucking your arse. There’s not even time to find a jar, you spit on your hand and pump your prick. I pull back, just before your moment of crisis.

“Give me the key,” I say.

You blink, shake your head.

“Give me the key and I will fill you as you long to be filled.”

“No.”

“Please, Watson. The time for games is over.”

“No!”

I lunge for the key and realise my folly far too late.

You are ready, more than ready, for me.

Darkness.

I try to move.

Bound.

I open my eyes.

I am bound to the bed.

I turn my head.

Handcuffs, the superior American style.

You stand, still nude, save for the key.

“You begged,” you say.

I drop my head, take in the metal and the leather, and whisper.

“Please, Watson, take me in your mouth and your hands and your puckered hole. I need it. I ache for it. Please, I’ll do anything, submit to any debauched desire, any corporal discipline. Your will.”

Silence.

Then, key clicks in lock.


	29. Laughter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could be more beautiful than your amusement? 221b. Fluff.

I lied.

_About?_

What I said earlier.

_About?_

Your laughter.

_Remind me._

For a cushion, you have an exceedingly short memory. I said that you didn’t chortle or guffaw or cachinnate or titter.

_Ha!_

I did say you chuckle, just like that. You’re especially fond of making that noise when I’ve blurted out what in your mind is a non-sequitur. Of course, it is never a genuine non-sequitur because quite often I carry on talking to you when you’re not there. And sometimes I speak to you silently when you are there.

_Ha! Of course._

I know your laugh.

Your polite laugh when something’s not amusing.

Your barely-stifled titter when the company’s polite but your thought isn’t.

Your guffaw at a joke that’s both clever and ribald—I collect those like ancient palimpsests.

I’ve even been witness to you, on one occasion, cachinnating until your sides ached.

_The Red-Headed League?_

Yes, poor Jabez Wilson.

And, of course, behind closed doors, literally and figuratively, you giggle. You snort.

_You observe quite a bit._

Ah, your gift for understatement. Yes, I observe and archive what is important. Beautiful music is important, even the accidental. And what could be more beautiful than your amusement?

_You_ are _a romantic sod, Holmes._

Oh, yes, I’m to be talking about sodding, aren’t I? On to the buggering…


	30. Accidental Stimulation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xanadu crumbles.

…in Mrs. Hudson’s broom cupboard, amidst the mops and pails, when she’s on holiday…

_Stop._

…on the bearskin rug, over and over, until we’re both dripping sweat, feral, half-stupid with lust…

_Stop!_

…in a hansom cab, in the early morning, the jostling over stones only serving to—

_Holmes, stop now!_

Why?

_Because your ramblings have had an accidental, ancillary, but decidedly stimulating effect and if you don’t stop, I shan’t be able to walk out of here comfortably, much less have the wherewithal to haul you out with me, if required, which I suspect it will be._

I’m not going anywhere! Neither are you! Cushions don’t walk and they certainly don’t have erections. What, something to do with the tassels?

_I’m not a cushion, Holmes._

Of course, you are! You’re a coquelicot cushion, well, you were coquelicot, now you’re a dinghy brown—

_Stop it, Holmes._

Stop calling me ‘Holmes’!

Something grabs me.

I flinch.

“Fine. Behave like a child, get treated like one. Stop it, _Sherlock_. It’s Watson.”

I stare.

A hand grips mine. Hard.

“It’s John Watson,” you say slowly. “Not a cushion.”

I fix my gaze on the moustache, the lip because I daren’t look anywhere else. I cannot, will not, ever meet your eyes again…

Oh, dear God, dear God, dear God… 

Lips, yours, move. 

“There. That’s better.”


	31. Best and Worst.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending--for the cushion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me!

My skull halves itself.

My body convulses, splinters into shards.

I am being swallowed up by the earth.

No, the last is only the desperate prayer of a faithless man.

“Why are you here, Watson?”

“Isa Whitney is the husband of a friend of Mary’s. He’s also a frequent guest of this establishment. He hasn’t been home in three days, his wife came to Mary, so here I am to fetch him. I stumbled upon you as I was searching for him. I found him, by the way, and sent him in a cab to his home and sent word of my delayed return to mine.”

“How did you know it was me?”

You bless me with a half-smile. “You were saying my name quite a lot.”

Shame presses me to ground.

Might it inter me wholly?

Oh, if only.

“The question is, Holmes, why are _you_ here?”                                                       

At that, the stone is rolled back and I am resurrected and like Lazarus, confused enough to be temporarily shaken out of my bandages.

I look at you, at eyes which are not half as hard or cold as they ought to be.

“A case,” I say. I blink. “Disappearance of Neville St. Clair. Oh, dear God. He was last seen in these environs. I got distracted. His wife, I must…”

“Here, it’s doubtful anyone is alert enough to see through your disguise, but nevertheless, I shall bundle you in my cloak and treat you as if you are but another Isa Whitney.”

I welcome the shroud and am soon entombed once more, this time in rough woolly darkness.

We move as one in silence until we reach the waiting cab when I stop and say,

“But aren’t I but another Isa Whitney?”

You snort. “An addict’s an addict, but opium is not cocaine, Holmes. Baker Street?”

I can only nod.

“Watson?” I ask through the door. I’ve not shaved; as yet I do not trust my hands with more than soap and water and towel.

“Yes?”

I must know.

I must.

“How long were you there?”

“Not as long as you were. I arrived when you were talking about being something of a giant squid. Then there was a bit about the fog and then His Holiness gave us odd gifts and then, well…”

I groan and slump against the sink.

“Holmes, are you all right?”

“No, the earth has not swallowed me yet.”

You chuckle. Chuckle! Oh, dear God.

“I know some of it was the opium, but Holmes, in truth, I did not know, I did not suspect, I did not understand the full nature nor the depth of your regard for me. I believed the cold mask, the machine, the appendix, etcetera. But please believe me when I say whatever discomfort you might feel at the revelations, I assure you, on my part there is none. You are my friend, my best friend, and ever shall be. I shall always want to be by your side, to enjoy in your adventures and your company. And I shall always be ready to offer my aide and my companionship. My vow to and my love for my wife stand firm, but, uh, well, should we meet again in the next life—“

“We must,” I breathe, fogging the looking-glass.

“—then,” you falter, “then well, we have quite an imaginative list of acrobatics to explore, don’t we?”

My tears roll towards the drain and my words are so soft I daresay you don’t hear them.

“Yes, yes, we do.”

“Ah, with one provision.”

I frown. “Yes?”

“I react horrendously to most shellfish, so perhaps not the giant squid…”

I roll my eyes.

“Oh, Watson.”

“C’mon. Fresh shave. Clean collar. And let’s be at what we do best.”

“Which is?”

“Be clever, be bold, solve the puzzle, right the wrongs, save the day!”

I smile. “The game’s afoot?”

“Undoubtedly. Oh, and Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“You seemed so attached to it that I took the liberty of rescuing it, too. With a thoroughly cleaning and some new silks, it should be quite splendid. Not unlike yourself, in that respect, I’d say.”

I crack the door and spy a sliver of once-coquelicot.

“Oh, _Watson_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
